The Company of Strangers
by Jantallian
Summary: Jess's capacity for trouble lands him in strange company – vanishing wine-merchants, angry Marshalls, kidnappers and a beautiful blonde damsel, maybe in distress. Add a gun-fight, a fortress, a rowing boat and the inevitable cliff-face – it's fine till he has to explain it all to the blonde. (J & C AU 2 – between A List & Bearing Gifts. Develops Queen of Diamonds tag slightly).
1. Chapter 1

**#**

 **#**

 **THE COMPANY OF STRANGERS**

Jantallian

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'If I'm standing in a crowd, call my name, call it loud,

don't go to strangers, woman, call on me.

Wave your arm in the air, let me know that you're there,

when in doubt, oh woman, call on me.'

J. J. Cale _\- Don't Go To Strangers_

 _#_

 **1**

At a window of the Central Hotel in Denver, a worried young woman leaned on the sill and gazed out into the main street. A frown creased her satin-smooth skin and the line of her jaw showed a distinct tendency to clench, despite the otherwise ethereal contours of her face. The fingers of one hand drummed absently as she considered her options and the task she had set herself. Independent and strong-willed though she was, she wished heartily she had some kind of reliable back-up - preferably young, good-looking and an excellent shot – but any kind of trustworthy support would be better than none.

She had considered going to the Marshall's office, but what could she tell him? That the letter she had received from her father was false? That there was no reason for him to linger in Denver once he had made the contacts in the wine business which he had planned? That the reason he gave for remaining could not be true because his business was importing fine wine from France and he would never consider buying up someone else's cellar? Her own instincts and knowledge of her father's business were not evidence a lawman could act on. She was alone, even though the street below was thronged with people walking, riding and driving with single-minded determination about their business. Not one of them had the least connection with her.

And then she drew in a sharp breathe. She could not believe her eyes! He must be a mind-reader to appear so promptly to her need.

The cause of this reaction was a lone horseman, who had appeared at the far end of the street, moving at a steady, mile-eating lope that his horse could keep up almost for ever. As he approached the congested centre of the town, his star-faced bay slowed to a walk. The horseman might once have been clad in blue denim, but he was now grey with dust from his hair to his boots and even his black hat and vest had assumed the same colour.

The young woman shook her head and chuckled with amusement.

Man and horse paused at the town water-trough, where the rider slid from the saddle with weary grace, gave the animal a slap on the neck which raised even more dust and allowed his mount a good drink. Once the animal's needs were satisfied, the man strolled over to the saloon opposite the hotel and flipped his mount's reins loosely round the rail, without tying them.

The watcher realised the rider was in much the same condition as the horse and chuckled again as he disappeared inside. No doubt he'd get round eventually to shedding some of the trail dust, once he'd stabled his mount and found a room – in the Central, she hoped. Still smiling to herself, she left the window and sat down at the desk, where she scribbled a brief note and sealed and addressed the envelope. She hesitated for a moment about how, when and where to deliver it. Better not to disturb a good drink! Later, perhaps, she would find an opportunity for such business. She smiled again as she lodged the note against the lamp on the desk. Meanwhile her own business was important and she had an appointment to keep.

Descending broad sweep of the hotel staircase a few moments later, she passed a new arrival, but it was not the man she had been watching. Parcels and luggage were being rapidly carried up by a succession of porters, as an elegant woman clad to the height of fashion, but completely in black, watched from the desk, where she had been signing the register. A widow, perhaps? Or was it just that the black set off to perfection her rich gold hair and magnolia complexion? The young woman herself was fashionably attired in a very well cut jade linen suit which exactly matched the colour of her eyes and the hat on her silver-blonde head could not be equalled in Denver, since it had been purchased on the East Coast. Nonetheless, she suddenly felt both immature and inadequate – not feelings to put her in the best of moods. She scowled and hurried on to her appointment.

When she returned in due course to the hotel, somewhat frustrated because she had not been able to gain anything from this appointment, she paused at the desk to look in the register. The name she was looking for was not there. Nevertheless, she was sure he would come. She was determined to make the most of the delay by bathing and changing into something prettier than the suit. It was sometime later, therefore, that she came back down to the broad lobby of the hotel, where there were numerous comfortable chairs and sofas for the relaxation of the patrons. Here she chose a secluded seat in the far corner, where she could easily watch the front door, the reception desk and the stairs.

Presently her vigil was rewarded, but in a way which startled her. The man came suddenly down the staircase, even though he was not registered to stay in the hotel. And he had certainly shed the trail-dust. In fact he had changed so completely she was not sure for a moment that it really was him and not a total stranger. She'd never seen him in formal clothes – a good broad-cloth long coat, embroidered vest and a clean, white shirt with a narrow neck-tie. It looked as though he had a new hat in his hand, too. She stared, puzzled. It was perfectly all right for her to dress up to meet him, but she could not imagine him doing the same for her.

The explanation was not long coming. The man picked up a newspaper from one of the side-tables and dropped into a chair near the door, although he did not have time to do much reading. The young woman was only a few feet behind him, when there was a little stir amongst the people frequenting the lobby. They were all looking towards the staircase, where the elegant woman, whom she had seen arrive, was just descending. She was wearing a different, but equally figure-hugging outfit, black again with touches of cream which matched her complexion. She was clearly used to the tribute of people's admiration and paid no attention to it, but made straight for the reading man. She whisked the paper mischievously out of his hands and tossed it on the floor.

"My dear Jess, you've cleaned up quite nicely!" she purred in a rich, contralto voice as he got swiftly to his feet.

His voice was a low growl, intended for her ears only as he replied: "Someone frog-marched me into a rather luxurious bathroom, if you recall!" The young woman, however, had very sharp ears and she knew that tone and the challenge underlying it. The man moved towards the elegant blonde, but checked for a fraction of a second. The young woman behind him saw the cloth of his jacket move because his shoulder-muscles hitched momentarily as if he was uneasy about something.

"Is something the matter?" the blonde enquired, sensing the hesitation and clearly affronted by it.

"Some unfinished business," he replied obscurely. "Nothing that won't improve by keeping." He offered the woman his arm and the two strolled out of the building and disappeared in the crowd.

The young woman stood quite still, so still in fact that a man who had just entered the hotel almost cannoned into her. His brown eyes opened wide and she heard a sharp intake of breath as he looked her up and down in bewilderment and no little admiration.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am!" He had already removed his hat and now gave a courteous bow. She smiled and bowed back and was about to turn away when he reached out and touched her arm. "Pardon me," he said again, "but I must ask – are you Armand Picard's daughter?"

"Why, yes, but -?" She was surprised and, since her self-esteem had just taken quite a battering, flattered that someone knew who she was. She looked more closely at the young man, who was certainly worth a second look. He was tall and well-built, his brown hair and eyes softening an appearance which would otherwise have bordered on the ruthless. Although well under thirty, he had a confident air of command and an extremely courteous manner. Her mind flicked back momentarily to another and quite different encounter with an unknown young man, but she pushed away memory and concentrated on the present. Perhaps this one could be of some help to her instead.

"You won't remember me," he was saying, "but my father and yours were business partners several times. I saw you once, back east, at the New Year's ball." He paused, before adding ingenuously, "I've never forgotten it."

"Why, thank you!" Chantal Picard was quite accustomed to young men metaphorically falling at her feet – well, most of them, anyway! Thick, gold lashes swept down over the brilliance of her eyes, as she smiled just a little at the compliment.

"My father is Emory Turner" the young man continued. "I am his eldest son, Richard – although most people call me just Rick." He hesitated a moment and then continued tentatively, "I know this is very sudden, but, perhaps, if you have no other engagements, you would do me the honour of having supper with me this evening?"

It seemed too good to be true. "I've just visited your father's offices, Mr. Turner," she told him. "I have a problem with which I hope he might be able to help me."

"I'm sure he would be enchanted, but he's out of town, at our residence. Perhaps we could discuss it over our meal? I may be able to help and if I can't, I'm sure he would be delighted to have you as his guest for a while." The irony of this was not to strike her until some time later. Meanwhile, dining with a personable young man would prove a good antidote to both her feeling of isolation and to an unreasonable sense of rejection.

# # # # #

There were plenty of eating places in Denver. One or two of these were both sophisticated and expensive. Tables could even be reserved in advance. It was the most unlikely of co-incidences that the first person Chantal saw as Richard Turner escorted her to her seat was the blonde woman from the hotel. She could not see who she was dining with, because whoever it was sat with their back to one of the pillars, but it was a table for two and there were no prizes for guessing who the second person was.

Chantal was glad her own table in the restaurant did not require her to pass them. She sat down and concentrated her attention on a charming young man who did not show any sign of going off with sophisticated older women.

The sophisticated older woman, meanwhile, was regarding her dining companion with a mixture of irritation and chagrin. Although he was perfectly attentive to her needs, he seemed to be about as accessible as the top of the Rockies – and as cool. June Dark thought with an inner sigh how much easier it would be to play this scene with Slim Sherman, who genuinely liked her and could be relied upon to show it in the most charming manner.

"It ain't my fault he busted his ankle!" This uncanny reading of her thoughts made her revise her opinion of her companion's sensitivity.

"That didn't make any difference," she retorted. "You're here because we all trust you not to kill Jim!" Her breath caught as she recalled the risk her husband was taking in relying on Jess Harper's gun-skill.

"Not _actually_ to kill him," he corrected with a wry grin. "I'll do my best."

June knew this was true. He had supported and backed-up her husband, to the extent of putting his own life on the line to save Jim when the Reeves brothers were gunning for him. Once Jess had taken to someone, he obviously gave them his total loyalty and commitment. He just didn't accord her such trust, nor the admiration and flirtation to which she was accustomed. June could not figure out why. After all, he had angled shamelessly for that kiss when she and Jim had left Laramie – turning on a devastating combination of challenge and appeal, almost as if he were mischievously bent on proving he could manipulate her instead of the reverse.

She decided on a direct attack. "Are you always this reserved when you're in love?"

His eyes narrowed for a second, then he said quietly: "Yes." He seemed to be thinking something over, but she had no idea what it was.

She tried again. "In that case, Jess, if this is going to work, you are going to have to do some acting!"

"If this is goin' to work, you're goin' to have to remember it _is_ just an act."

"And you don't trust me to do just that?"

There was a pause. "No."

"Why not?"

"Let's just say you're a mite too fond of trailin' scalps in the dust behind you," he told her drily. "You ain't includin' mine among them."

"Really? Why would I want to?"

"You don't have to want to," he said shrewdly. "It's just a natural habit. An' I don't like bein' a habit, either!"

This conversation was veering so far from the kind of relationship they were supposed to be impressing upon the social scene in Denver that June almost despaired. But too much was at stake. "All right then, I'll remember exactly how nasty you were when I was in Laramie and you can pretend I'm someone you –"

She stopped abruptly as she saw real anger flash into his eyes. It was gone in a second, replaced once more by the cool control she had been trying to break through. She was not sure what she had said to trespass upon his feelings, but whatever it was, he had shut her out even more effectively than before. She might just as well have been in the company of a total stranger. Without any calculation, she said with a desperate half-sob, "Jess, I'm sorry! But we have to go through with this and it has to look real!"

He drew a deep breath and said, "Talk to me about your husband."

"About Jim?" She was utterly confused.

"Yeah, that one. He seems to be the one thing we both agree on."

"Agree?"

"Yeah. I admire him and you're in love with him. Seems likely to make us both talk a lot pleasanter."

June looked at him then with eyes which had seen so much hurt to the man she loved. Just for a moment, she felt he understood such a tie, the pain and the passion and the risks that each of them was prepared to take for the other. In a way it was a mark of respect or perhaps of shared experience.

"Alright." She drew a breath and focused inwardly on the man who was risking so much because of the integrity which underpinned his belief in justice. And she looked across the table at the man who was willing to risk everything to support that commitment.

The change in her face was visible, not least to the young woman who, despite the attractions of her escort, could not entirely detach herself from her own feelings. Richard, 'please, call me Rick', Turner was no substitute, but he would have to do. Chantal resolutely put her attention to captivating him and securing his support for the quest she had undertaken. As yet, she had no idea of the way in which this was drawing her into peril. If she had, she would not have backed down.


	2. Chapter 2

_The Company of Strangers_

Jantallian

 **2**

Peril was never in short supply in Denver, where the night was filled with gambling, drinking and fighting, not to mention beatings, robbery and not infrequent cases of murder. Cruising the gambling tables of the town, June Dark and her escort drew plenty of attention: she because of her skills as a dealer, not to mention her beauty; her escort because of his reputation with a gun and because it was obvious after only a few games that he did not depend on her dealing to win. But the pair were not seriously in the business of making money and seemed more occupied with their own pleasure and amusement. This did not go unnoticed in certain quarters, including Rick Turner and his drinking companions.

Rick returned his charming companion to the Central Hotel, but had no intention whatsoever of calling it a night. As it happened, he wandered into a saloon where June Dark's escort was in the process of making short work of a man unwary enough to have presumed on a previous acquaintance with her. He was using a knife, but Rick noticed the well-worn gun belt and the sleek gun, polished and honed through much use. He considered the offender was lucky not to get his head blown off. He also considered thoughtfully whether this was a man he himself would care to take on in a shoot-out. He would need more proof, but he was beginning to think his father would do well to recruit the services of such a gunslinger in their latest enterprise. Meanwhile the mere fact that Harper was painting the town in the company of that particular woman suggested a level of reckless confidence or a knowledge of his own skill which made him disregard the reactions of one of the fastest Marshalls in the territory.

The proof of this came at noon the next day.

Emory Turner had ridden into town to his offices, where his son had joined him to discuss their current money-making venture. Turner Senior listened carefully to his son's account of the previous evening, after which he rubbed a thoughtful hand over his sharp jaw and raised one eyebrow in query. "You're sure he's that fast?"

"His rep says so. Talked to a man who saw him in action when the Reeves boys were taken down."

"Dark had a broken hand then. Must have needed help."

"Yeah. That doesn't mean Harper isn't fast enough to beat him now. And he'll need to be, if he's playing fast and loose with Dark's woman." He grinned a little at the pun.

"His wife," Emory corrected punctiliously.

"Even worse!" Rick grinned some more.

His father regarded him with what might be mistaken for distaste in anyone else; the younger generation seemed to want to break all the boundaries, instead of choosing the most profitable ones. Still, he might have a point about this hired gun. He nodded to the four men lounging about the room, indicating that they should accompany him. "He must have been well paid to help Dark against the Reeves. I want to look him over, before I decide if he'll be useful – and how expensive he'll turn out to be!" he said, picking up his hat. His wish was about to be unexpectedly fulfilled.

The main street was crowded as usual. As they left and strolled in the direction of the Central Hotel, a violent altercation erupted onto the street from the Marshall's Office on the other side. Emory Turner stopped, gesturing his followers to stand back and watch.

"You fool, Jim!" The senior Marshall, Stan Peterson, was yelling at a powerful, stocky, dark-haired figure, who shook off his restraining hold contemptuously. "Why risk everything we've worked for over a woman?"

The dark man flung back his head and looked his fellow Marshall in the eye. He wasn't particularly tall, but he was immensely strongly built. His whole stance was a silent warning to anyone foolhardy enough to take him on.

"You saying my wife isn't worth it, Marshall?" he asked in a dangerously soft voice.

There was no answer, although this was all too obviously what Peterson did think. The stocky man dropped his hand to his gun, seemingly checking his own intentions. Then he walked swiftly towards the Central Hotel. The street miraculously cleared, as passers-by took instant refuge in the nearest door or alleyway.

When he reached the front of the hotel, a glazed door into one of the bedrooms on the first floor opened and a man strolled out onto the balcony. He leaned against the rail, looking over and shaking the ash off the cigar he was smoking, so that it drifted down and powdered the hair of the man below. As a gesture of derision, it was unmistakable.

"You lookin' for somethin', Dark?" The deep Texan drawl was both contemptuous and amused.

"You have something of mine, Harper!" the man below told him. "And if you think you're going to keep her, you'd better come down here and prove that you can."

"Reckon I'm provin' I can, just by bein' up here!" The other was laughing openly now.

"All you're proving is that you aren't fast enough to face me," was the cold retort, "and that rep of yours is just a cover for a yellow streak a mile wide!"

In the pause which followed, the crushed remains of the cigar tumbled down into the road. Suddenly there was no-one on the balcony. The whole street held its breath.

The gunslinger emerged from the hotel doors. The blonde woman was close behind him, clutching at his coat and obviously arguing with him, but he pushed her aside carelessly, as if she did not exist. To free up his holster and gun, he slid out of the coat and dropped it over the rail. He strolled casually out into the middle of the street.

"You sure about this, Dark?"

"I'm surely going to kill you!" was the reply.

"Really?" The gunman raised an eyebrow, shrugged and looked utterly bored. He stood completely still, as if he were daring his opponent to take a shot at him. Only the gentle movement of his left thumb against his palm would have warned anyone who knew him intimately that he was about to demonstrate the lightning-swiftness of his draw.

"Really!" Dark's left arm moved as his hand dropped onto his hip while his right flashed towards his gun.

Despite the blur of movement, Harper seemed still to be waiting, holding his fire until the other's gun was virtually out of the holster. Then his right hand moved too swiftly for the eye to see, his left thumbed the hammer just once and a shot cracked through the air, only a split-second before Dark's finger tightened on the trigger. The second shot was so close it sounded like an echo; it went wide as Dark crumpled to the ground, his left arm clutched against his side.

The blonde woman gave a shriek and ran frantically to the fallen man. "Jim! Darling!" She fell on her knees, lifting him into her arms as a dark red stain spread rapidly across the chest of his shirt. "No! No!" Her heart-stricken sobs filled the air.

The gunman holstered his weapon and walked slowly towards the couple, his gaze burning into them unwaveringly. "You can leave off the crocodile tears!" he snarled at the woman. "This is what you were askin' for, isn't it?"

She looked up at him, her face ravaged with shock and glistening with tears. "I hate you, you killer! Hate you! Get away from me! He was worth a thousand of your kind!"

The gunman continued to stare at her for several seconds before he reacted.

"Why, you good-for-nothin' bitch!" A sharp crack echoed down the street like another gun-shot as he hit the woman a back-handed blow which knocked her across her husband's body. He stood over the pair of them as if contemplating finishing them both off, but then he kicked the inert body with a booted foot and remarked coldly, "I feel sorry for you, Dark! At least I know she's not worth dyin' for."

He turned on his heel and strode across the street to where his coat was draped over the rail. As he shrugged it on, Marshall Peterson came up behind him, an unwise move as he found himself looking straight down the barrel of that gun. "It was a fair fight, Marshall – you saw and so did every other person hidin' in a doorway. I even gave him a chance!" A bitter grin touched the speaker's lips. "He's dead and there ain't nothin' y' can do to me."

Peterson glowered and told him "Nothing except to suggest you take a long vacation from Denver, Harper. It might be better for your health."

"Or yours." The gunman's contempt was obvious. He walked away into the saloon and ordered a whiskey at the bar which had somehow emptied on his entrance.

Outside the body of Jim Dark, followed by his weeping widow, was being carried from the street.

Emory Turner smiled without mirth but with great satisfaction. "How very convenient. Dark was becoming far too nosy." He turned to one of his men and ordered, "Pick Harper up and bring him out to the house. He should be willing enough to quit Denver, especially if there's a fat fee in it for him." Then he addressed his son. "Perhaps you could offer the young lady our hospitality for a while? If you've made yourself pleasant, she should be willing enough too!"

 **# # # # #**

The young lady, meanwhile, had been leaning on the window sill once more, willing herself not to look away from the street below. The confrontation between the two men had been clearly audible and despite her horror at the implications, she forced herself to watch the outcome. She'd seen Jess dispose in no uncertain terms of dangerous opponents in a fist fight, which was indication enough that he did not back down easily. But she had no idea he had this kind of reputation with a gun or whether it was deserved. If it wasn't, she could soon be looking down on his corpse.

As it was, she saw a dead man carried into the hotel. Someone else's man. A brief pang struck her heart on behalf of the blonde woman, despite her previous feelings. But her mind was grappling with the scene she had just witnessed. It had all happened right in front of her eyes. But she simply could not believe it. She could not believe that someone she knew – or thought she knew – could have just behaved in such a cold-blooded and vicious way. And over a married woman! In her confusion and pain, all she wanted was to get away from Denver and from the claustrophobic confines of the Central Hotel as fast as possible.


	3. Chapter 3

_The Company of Strangers_

Jantallian

 **3**

"Take him to my room!" June Dark seized the key the clerk was offering her and thrust it at the men escorting her husband's body. It was pure chance which made her glance at the register as she waited for them to carry it upstairs. Skimming absently down the list, she suddenly focused on a particular name, a few entries above her own. She noted the room number and hastened upstairs.

In her room, she found Jim laid out on the bed and the men just leaving, with muttered words of sympathy and no little anger because such a man had met his end at the hands of a worthless saddle tramp. It was a tribute to her charm that none of them appeared to blame her for the gunman's actions. June just bowed her head and nodded her thanks, concealing her impatience to get them out of the room. As soon as they had gone, she locked the door behind them and, as an added precaution, closed the curtains.

Then she ran to the bed and frantically removed her husband's gory shirt and the heavy protection wrapped tight round his chest. Jim gave a strangled grunt as he fought to catch his breath and struggled to sit up. He looked down at the neat groove running across the leather-bound pouch strapped to his left side and grinned with genuine pleasure. "Exactly as we practised! That boy sure is a crack shot!"

"He can be trusted." June sounded as if she had been totally unsure of this. She gave Jim an ecstatic hug, but did not allow her joy that it had all worked out to distract her from the next part of their plan. Almost at once, she demanded: "The business man, the latest one to disappear – did you say he was a Frenchman, someone called Picard?" When Jim nodded in assent, she told him: "His daughter is here in the hotel."

"We'd better talk to her."

" _I'd_ better talk to her. You're supposed to be dead, remember?"

But this sensible action was not to be. Knocking at Chantal's door, she received no answer at that time or later in the evening, when the girl should have returned. Fearing the worst, they were forced to wait until the hotel had closed down for the night before they could creep along to her door, where Jim resorted to his knife and forced the lock. The moment they entered, it was obvious the girl was no longer resident, even though some of her belongings still remained. Jim made a swift examination of the room, but his wife's attention was caught immediately by an envelope propped up against the desk lamp.

"Jim!" She pointed to the name on the envelope and he swore softly. "Should we …?"

"Yes!" he said decisively. "There's too much at stake. Jess is in no position to open it himself and it may be vital."

June found a paperknife and slit open the envelope. Somehow it seemed less intrusive than just ripping it open. She looked at the single sheet enclosed and read from the sloping, French handwriting: ' _Jess, something has happened to my father. I can't go to the Marshall because there is no proof, but I'm following a lead through his business connections – a man called Turner here in Denver. Not sure what to do next, but I know I need your help. Chantal.'_

She folded the paper and replaced it slowly in the envelope. "I knew there was something!"

"What d'you mean?" Jim respected his wife's intuition, for it was her business to be good at reading people.

"Jess was so edgy! He must have known she was here."

"So? Can't see why that should make a difference?"

"Don't be stupid!" June waved the envelope under his nose. "This is exactly the kind of note I'd have written to you. No polite introduction. No fuss or elaboration. Just straight to the point. She trusts him and she knows he won't let her down."

"He won't have that option, where he is right now."

"But where is she?"

Finding the answer had to wait until the following morning. Under the pretext of another enquiry to the reception clerk, June asked casually, "Is Miss Picard in the hotel at the moment? We are old friends and I ..." she paused, catching her breath, "I need a friend right now."

The clerk, an educated man, frowned and said with emphasis, " _Mademoiselle_ Picard has retained her room, but I understand she is spending some days as the guest of Mr Emory Turner."

June turned whiter than anyone with such a pale, smooth complexion should be able to and her trembling legs would scarcely carry her back to her room.

"The clerk says she's staying with Emory Turner!"

Jim struck his fist on the table and swore. "That's the last thing we need! It plays right into his hands." He thought for a moment and then decided, "I'll have to go up there straight away. I daren't wait the way we'd planned, if the girl's involved."

"I'm sure Jess will protect her!" June felt she now understood his reticence at dinner. "He won't let any harm come to her."

"He may not be able to do anything to prevent it. He's there to get information and find their weak-spots. And," he added with a wry grin, "he hasn't exactly been acting as a protector of women, has he?"

"Then I'm coming too!"

"You'll do no such thing!"

"Yes, I must. Who else can you trust? Besides, I can get into the house – I've been Turner's guest before. He doesn't know that I know where Jess went. It will amuse him no end if I turn up asking him to help me get revenge." Jim hesitated and she added firmly, "And if Jess can't do anything, someone else has to look out for the girl because she's walked into a trap!"

# # # # #

The approach to Turner's house surprised Chantal. Although Rick fetched her in a buggy, they drove only a few miles before arriving at a river-bank and embarking on a little steam launch. Rick looked at her amazed face and laughed. "I thought you might prefer to travel in comfort, as I am sure a young lady of your great wealth is accustomed. The river will take us all the way to my father's mansion. Please, sit back and enjoy the view."

Chantal smiled graciously at him as she reclined on the comfortable cushioned seat and remembered to flutter her eyelashes from time to time as he regaled her with descriptions of the extent of his father's land and the history of the house to which they were travelling. She was subconsciously picking out relevant facts which might be useful at the same time as which her mind was in overdrive. Why that reference to wealth? Surely the Turners were prosperous in their own right? "You must be so rich, to run a boat like this," she complimented and went on to enquire teasingly: "Or do you have a whole fleet of them?"

"Just the one. For special guests."

There was something about the way he said this which sent a shiver of apprehension over her skin. She pulled her shawl closer about her and wished fervently she had dressed practically rather than ornamentally. She could just hear Jess's comments on the subject – but she would never hear them again, never have any contact with him again, not after …

"There's my father's house!" Rick was pointing ahead, upstream, where the land began to rise even higher into the mountains and the river turned and twisted to carve a curving path. At one point, it cut round a huge outcrop of rock, surrounding it almost completely. On top of this bluff, she could see a sprawling building, which seemed unexpectedly to resemble a Spanish hacienda and which was protected naturally from any attack by the river and the cliffs. She let a perfectly genuine sense of wonder permeate her voice: "How ever did he manage to build in such a place?"

"Easy!" he laughed. "Before the war, there was plenty of slave labour – if you knew where to find it."

"Magnificent! But it must be difficult getting supplies up there?"

"They're brought upstream on cargo boats. There's a dock and a winching system. It is quite simple, really." The reply was delivered in the patronising tones of one who did not expect women to … "Don't bother your beautiful head about it. You'll be well taken care of."

Chantal didn't much like the sound of this either and felt that her false expression of infatuated delight was going to crack her cheeks if she had to keep it up much longer. "I feel very privileged."

"My dear Chantal, it is your right," he told her with a possessive smile. "Only employees have to ride the distance. And my father's men are well paid to do it!"

He was thinking of the group which had set off in the early hours of the morning, with, in their midst, a certain gunman who should, by rights, be nursing a cracking hangover. If he was, however, Jess Harper had given not the slightest sign. He had also driven an extremely hard-headed bargain on the subject of payment.

And a whole day after the two parties had made their way by land and water to the house on the cliff, a lone buggy with an escorting horseman raced through the midday heat in desperate haste to avert a disaster which seemed all too likely to happen.


	4. Chapter 4

_The Company of Strangers_

Jantallian

 **4**

"What does that woman want?" Emory Turner demanded irritably. "I suppose I'll have to be pleasant to her or she'll suspect I have some reason not to regret her husband's timely demise!" He thought for a moment, then issued his orders. "I don't want her taking a knife to Harper. Put him on duty somewhere out of the way for the moment – he can guard our other guest. And now I suppose we'd better entertain these females in an appropriate manner."

Emory Turner was inordinately proud of his residence and liked to display his wealth in fashionable habits. Consequently he dined late, in the evening, in order to show off to his guests the splendour of his imported chandeliers. Where ordinary working folk would be closing down for the day at sunset, the Turner household began to wake up to a brilliant and elaborate evening, at least when there were genuine visitors. The women present were expected to live up to this opulence and plenty of time was accorded for dressing and other preparations.

Chantal concentrated on creating the most feminine and alluring appearance she could from the ample array of dresses in the wardrobe of her room. At any other time she would have been delighted with prospect of choosing from so many lovely ones – and not having to buy them. As it was, any enthusiasm she might have had was utterly chilled by wondering why the garments were provided and what had happened to any previous occupants of them.

It had taken less than twenty four hours for her to find out that her guest status was a token one only. The Turners, father and son, were polite but quite definite: she would stay as long as they pleased and her stay would be governed by how long she continued to interest Rick. As for helping her to find her father - that caused the kind of laughter which chilled her spine and set her brain racing. Clearly they were not going to do anything of the kind. Whatever business dealings they had had with him, there was no vestige of friendship in it: she was in the company of total strangers.

Having left a note for Jess was no help either. How could it possibly reach him and even if it did, why should he follow up the reference to Turner or indeed, on his recent showing, bother with any consideration of her needs at all? In the midst of this predicament, she was exceedingly uncomfortable to find the blonde widow, June Dark, as her fellow guest, especially as she seemed to be such very good friends with Turner Senior. The mere sight of the woman drove home the way she had effectively forced Chantal to abandon any hope in the one person she had thought she could rely upon, in circumstances which hurt much more than she would admit. They had exchanged polite smiles and purely conventional conversation.

During the afternoon, Chantal had inveigled Rick into giving her a tour of the house. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, but she felt instinctively that knowing the exact layout of the building might prove very useful. The place was elaborate in the extreme and within the outer hacienda-like walls there proved to be a series of interconnecting courtyards, a vast number of stairways and more rooms of all sizes than she could be bothered to count. A number of things were interesting, however, including the fact that no rooms on the ground floor had external windows and those on the floors above were heavily barred, despite spectacular views over the steep cliff and river below. The place resembled nothing so much as a fortress prison. Chantal had a very good direction sense, despite the turns and twists of the corridors and stairways. She was certain there was one floor on the western side which Rick entirely omitted to show her. Her mind was racing even more as she returned to her room to dress.

The first thing she saw was the long note attached to the pin-cushion on her dressing-table. Her heart leapt into her throat and was immediately subdued by her common-sense. Jess was a minimalist when it came to writing and she was familiar enough with his atrocious handwriting to know this wasn't it - and besides there was no way he could possibly communicate with her because he didn't even know she was there - and anyway she never, ever wanted to hear from him again!

She picked up the note and waited for her vision to clear. When it finally did, she read:

' _My dearest Chantal, how delightful that we are guests together. I was devastated to have missed you in Denver, even though we were staying at the same hotel. It will be wonderful to catch up on all the news. I am so sorry your father is unable to join us in experiencing Emory's superb hospitality. It is a setting in which Armand would be entirely at home. Speaking of which, I did enjoy the splendid midsummer ball which he gave for you. You looked so beautiful in the eau-de-nil satin and the silver train matched your hair exactly. You should wear that colour often, my dear. But I am sure you will shine tonight. Do I detect a little tenderness in the demeanour of a certain son and heir? My blessings on you both, June._

Chantal read the note carefully twice. Then she walked over to the window and gazed out at the view. As she did so, she carefully tore this remarkable missive into tiny pieces and let them flutter, a few at a time, out on the breeze, to drift down and be submerged in the dark water below. Since there had been no ball and no satin dress and no silver train, since eau-de-nil was a colour which made her look like a washed-out cabbage and since she and her father had never met June Dark, something else must be intended. Taking this into account and adding the fact that the letter was so harmless and open, it suggested considerable danger to the writer and the recipient. She thought, perhaps, four words in it had been in slightly darker ink – ' _father … experiencing … Emory's … hospitality_ ' – but she could not be sure. The rest was certainly a total fabrication, but June Dark had no reason whatsoever to write to her unless the note conveyed more than the outward meaning.

Coming to herself with a start, Chantal realised she should be dressing for dinner. She pulled open the huge wardrobe doors and surveyed the possibilities open to her. And there, on the rail, was an eau-de-nil satin dress! It did not have a silver train, but the skirt at the back was ruched into an elaborate set of pleats, cascading one over the other. Running her fingers down the folds, Chantal found another small piece of paper pinned inside. _Clever June!_ Chantal would have liked to hug her. It was extremely unlikely that any man would be able to identify the colour or the material, let alone the styling, even if such a thought occurred to them.

She unfolded the note hastily. It was a minute scrap of paper and the information was curt and almost cryptic. ' _Danger. Use you blackmail papa. Get away soon.'_ This note too she swiftly consigned to wind and water. Then she set about selecting a suitably stunning dress in dark green. She rang the bell for the maid and, with the help, piled and pinned her hair into an elaborate and sophisticated creation. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice reminded her that, even with black eye, she looked beautiful with it loose – but she thrust the thought away with a mental injunction to the original speaker: ' _Sortir de ma tête_!' It was time to face up to fascinating the Turners over dinner.

# # # # #

Men are expected to demonstrate hearty appetites, no matter what. Fortunately women can smile mysteriously and pick at their food with dainty disdain. This was just as well, since neither Chantal nor June had the appetite to do justice to the excellent food set before them. The company was small and the talk general. June appeared to be sulking about something and Emory had the air of one relishing a private joke. Rick drank a great deal and Chantal spent a great deal of energy in false charm and skilful manipulation of his responses.

She was heartily glad when dinner was over and the ladies were able to withdraw, leaving the men to their brandy and whiskey. June had already pleaded an early departure in the morning and gone to her room. Chantal wondered whether to follow her and seek more information, but decided against it. If the previous evening was anything to go by the men would be drinking for at least an hour. It was a God-given opportunity to do some investigation of her own.

She lurked in her room until she was certain that no-one was about. The Turners and their two male guests were busy drinking. The men Turner employed were similarly relaxing in their own quarters. Such was the impregnable position of the house itself that no-one thought it necessary to mount a guard, except at the foot of the main ascent – and one man could do so easily.

Chantal lost no time in finding her way, without much difficulty, to the one floor of the building which she had not been shown. It was something of a disappointment on first viewing. Most of the rooms on the outer side of the building were evidently unoccupied, their doors standing open and their contents blameless for all the world to see. On the inner side, due to the construction of the courtyard system, there were fewer doors and she guessed the rooms would be smaller. All the doors were closed.

She took off her high-heeled slippers and crept up to the first door. Utter silence greeted her ear when it was applied to the keyhole and there was no light either. When she tried the handle, the door was locked. The second was the same and the third. At the fourth door, however, her persistence was rewarded. There were faint sounds of movement inside, as if someone was shifting uncomfortably on a hard chair. Then, to her delight, she heard very softly, but distinctly, the words: "Merci. Je suis plus à l'aise maintenant."

 _More comfortable?_ It was her father's voice, but who on earth would be making him more comfortable if, as she suspected, he was not a guest but a prisoner? Her heart leapt in fear: _Surely not a doctor_?

"Garde le silence!"

The words sounded like a growl. Hardly the attitude of a doctor. Chantal was determined to find out what was going on and to do that she had to get the door open, at least a crack. Supposing it was locked, like all the others, she would have to find means to pick the lock. After a moment's thought, she put her shoes back on. If she was caught, she needed to brazen it out as if she had a perfect right to wander around the mansion. And if it came to a struggle, she knew no more painful sensation than to be stamped on by a high heel! She pulled a single hair-pin out of her elaborate hair-do and set to work on the lock.

The door was immediately flung open. It was a toss-up who was more surprised, the girl outside it or the men within.

"What the hell are you doin' here!"

Before she could react or reply, Jess had grabbed her by the shoulders and was administering a good shaking, punctuated by a whispered mixture of Spanish and English, uttered in the most formidable manner he could muster without actually raising his voice: "Poco tonto, estás intentando de asustarme a muerte! Y' supposed to be safe in the hotel in Denver! ¿Qué estás haciendo en esta casa? Just let me handle this, will y'!"

"Cabeza de toro!" Chantal spat back, wrenching herself out of his grip. "Tome sus manos de mi padre! What are you doing to him?"

"Same as you! Rescuin' him!"

This reply left Chantal momentarily baffled. In the pause, Armand Picard seized them both by the arm and ordered: "Dépêchez-vous, mes enfants! Let us complete the rescue. Then you can argue to your heart's content."

The reasonableness of this request touched neither Chantal nor Jess. They were simply staring at each other as if an extremely rapid adjustment of ideas was taking place for both of them. Armand was about to intervene again when Jess recovered with a visible effort. "Tu as raison, mon ami. But she's your daughter - you make her!"

"Mais non, Jess! Tu es le seul homme qui peut le faire!"

"Right." Jess grabbed Chantal again and swung her out into the corridor. "Come on!" When Armand joined them, Jess shut the door and locked it behind them. "That should cover your exit for a while."

"Where did you get the key?" Chantal demanded, nettled that her efforts with the hairpin had been unnecessary.

"I'm the guard," Jess told her briefly. "Now get a move on!" He suddenly appeared to take in the way she was dressed and added in exasperated tones: "I don't suppose y'can do much runnin' in those shoes." He picked her up as easily as he had done when he first rescued her from the cliff-face and raced down the nearest stairway, which fortunately ended in the courtyard of the only entrance to the mansion.

Although the main stables were below the cliff, on the flat ground bordering the river, a number of horses could be accommodated in the first courtyard, for the convenience of visitors. June's buggy was standing in an open-fronted outbuilding, along with some other carriages. Jess strode across to it, still carrying Chantal, with Armand close on his heels.

"Matón! Why are you carrying me?" Chantal hissed angrily.

"Those shoes'll make a hell of a racket on the cobbles, that's why!" Jess snapped back, dumping her down next to the buggy. He leaned into it and pulled out the rugs and tarpaulin stowed under the seat. "Get in, Armand, and get under here. Y' ain't gonna be comfortable, but June's leavin' first thing tomorrow. You'll have to bear it till then."

"Il est plus à l'aise que dans une prison!" the Frenchman replied as he folded his not inconsiderable height into the confined space. The rugs came in handy for padding and concealment. The whole operation took little more than a few minutes.

"Now for a diversion," Jess said with satisfaction. To Armand he added: "Don't worry if y' hear your daughter screamin'!"

Sortir de ma tête. Get out of my mind.

Merci. Je suis plus à l'aise maintenant. Thank you. I am more comfortable now.

Garde le silence. Keep quiet.

Poco tonto, estás intentando de asustarme a muerte! Little fool, are you trying to scare me to death!

Qué estás haciendo en esta casa? What are you doing in this house?

Cabeza de toro! Bull head!

Tome sus manos de mi padre. Get your hands off my father.

Dépêchez-vous, mes enfants. Hurry up, my children.

Tu as raison, mon ami. You are right, my friend.

Mais non, Jess! Tu es le seul homme qui peut le faire! Why, no – you are the only man who can do that.

Matón Bully

Il est plus à l'aise que dans une prison. It is more comfortable than a prison.


	5. Chapter 5

_The Company of Strangers_

Jantallian

 **5**

The haze of tobacco and alcohol prevailing in the Turner dining room was shattered by piercing screams which suggested an Indian attack at the very least. Emory and Rick leapt to their feet, thanking their lucky stars that their guests had departed some time previously.

"Get the men!" Emory ordered his son, but this was unnecessary, as they were already tumbling into the room, guns in hand. By the sounds reaching them from the farther regions of the house, a titanic struggle was taking place. They ran towards the source of the upheaval, unsure what could be happening, but realising that, whatever it was, it had implications for their whole operation.

Those implications were fully intended by the two who were the source of the uproar. Jess had carried Chantal swiftly and inexorably back up the stairs and along the corridor until they were close to the accommodation reserved for bona fide guests. Then he dumped her on her feet again and said briskly: "Now you're gonna kick and scream and fight, like I know y'can! An' don't worry about the consequences. They won't notice Armand ain't there and he'll escape with June come morning. Once he's given his evidence, we'll get you out of here too. Just play the innocent and they won't suspect you of havin' anything to do with it. Now – make like y' hate me!"

Chantal regarded him intently. Vivid in her recollection were the events of the past few days – the hope, the disappointment, the shock, the fear, the rejection. Now, none of it seemed to matter.

Jess must have seen this in her eyes. "Come on, Tal – if y' don't put up a good show, we're both gonna die!"

It was a good show. The Turners and their henchmen arrived to find her engaged in a violent struggle with the gunman, whose intentions were all too obvious. It took three of Turner's men to drag him off her and subdue him. Chantal, released, fled into Rick's arms. Emory Turner regarded the fury of his son and the belligerent stance of his latest employee with something akin to amusement. He jerked his head in the direction from which they had come and ordered: "Bring them!"

Once more ensconced in the dining room, Emory poured himself another brandy and addressed his son thoughtfully. "Is she worth it?"

Rick glowered and said: "She's valuable – and not just to me."

"True," his father told him, "but you need to learn the difference between the two!"

"I know! But" – he slammed his fist into the table - "no-one helps himself to anything of mine!"

"So?"

"I say we teach this saddle-tramp what that means!"

Emory waited until he had finished his brandy before he responded to this: "You're dealing with the man who outgunned Jim Dark. Apart from being inclined to poach other people's women, he's very useful, valuable even, in his own way. Don't touch his hands – and I want him to be able to see what he's doing afterwards!"

There was a horrible thud as one of the men hit Jess in the stomach and, as he doubled up, another blow caught him on the chin. Chantal jumped to her feet instinctively, her anger and fighting instincts surging to the fore; not for the first time, she was ready to fling herself into the fray alongside Jess.

Emory Turner mistook the movement. "Oh no you don't, little lady!" He grabbed her wrist and forced her to sit again. "No running away. You watch this and see how my son values your honour! Besides, I need to know you've not been trying to string this gunslinger along."

It was a long time before Chantal could ever put into words what the next ten minutes meant to her. At the end, by some miracle or maybe sheer cussedness, Jess was still standing – and not because the two men continued holding him by the arms. Chantal could see his ribs pumping frantically as he struggled to breath against pain of the beating. Blood matted one side of his face where a gun-butt had caught him on the hairline and more ran from a cut on his cheekbone. His shirt was seriously ripped and dark bruising shadowed the lean muscles of his chest and stomach. Rick Turner stepped up to him and the other two had to brace themselves against the lunging forward movement that their captive made. Chantal's mind blazed with contempt – Rick was brave enough when someone was restraining Jess for him.

Beside her, Emory said smoothly, "You're too good a gun-fighter to waste time over incidents like this, Harper. You get the point?"

Chantal saw Jess's head duck in what she thought of as the black-bull movement, but he simply replied, "Yeah, I get the point. Your son don't like sharin'."

Rick laughed coldly and gestured to the two henchmen to let Jess go. "Very bright of you to get the point so quickly, loser!"

"Greedy bastard!" There was a blur of movement as Jess's left fist crunched into Rick's jaw, lifting him from the floor to crash backwards against the wall. His out-flung body sprawled motionless and Chantal had moment of vicious triumph in which she hoped he had broken his neck.

Jess turned and faced Emory Turner. His eyes flicked for a millisecond to the girl next to him. "Neither do I!" he said between his teeth.

Emory leapt up, his face convulsed with anger. But even with his son unconscious at his feet, his ruthless temperament accorded reluctant respect for any man who could take such a beating and still show himself a formidable and defiant fighter. He sighed and said somewhat regretfully, "I guess you need to cool down a little, young man. Hang him out in the breeze for a while, boys! It should give Mrs Dark some satisfaction, if nothing else." He looked hard at Chantal and added meaningfully, "I'm sure my son would appreciate a little feminine care when he comes round."

# # # # #

It took very little in the way of feminine skills on Chantal's part, once they were alone, to extract from Rick what was being done to Jess. She reckoned the information was worth a couple of unwanted kisses. Although his sadistic pleasure might have led him reveal more of what she needed to know, she did not want at any cost to arouse his suspicions that she was more interested in his victim than himself.

"In cases like this, we put the lifting gantry to good use," he told her gloatingly. "Strung up there overnight, even the most stubborn saddle-tramp'll come to his senses."

 _You don't know Jess Harper!_ Chantal was pretty certain any such action would merely infuriate Jess even further – just as she was seething with anger herself. She let nothing of this show in her face, while doing her best to escape from Rick's company and attentions as soon as she could. This would have been next to impossible if he had not been a heavy drinker and more interested in soothing his headache with alcohol even than with the attentions of a beautiful female. Chantal found herself escorted back to her room and advised to lock her door. She waited with all the patience she could muster before attempting a second surreptitious exit. All she had to do now was to find some way down to that gantry.

After some thought, she kicked off her high-heeled slippers, hitched up her skirt and tried unsuccessfully to toss back her hair, which was, of course, piled high in the elaborate style she had adopted for the dinner. Amazingly, the structure seemed to have survived the struggle she had put up against Jess, although she knew she would be feeling the bruises on her arms for certain. That brought her up against what he must be feeling right now after such a beating and being strung-up somewhere, somehow … she just had to get down to the cliff-face, but the only way she knew was through main entrance and the last thing on earth she wanted to do was to draw attention anywhere near June's buggy. Which way had they dragged him? She forced herself to recall the details of the struggle in the dining room. Through the service doors, of course! There must be a way out through the kitchen quarters; after all, it was the obvious place to haul supplies up to. She set off in search of the back stairs.

It took several minutes of sneaking and creeping before she was able to reach the now darkened kitchen and the back door. More time was needed to slide back the heavy bolts, and make use of the key which had fortunately, but carelessly, been left in the lock. At last she found herself in the kitchen courtyard, with the long shadow of the main beam of the gantry falling full across it in the bright moonlight. She scurried hastily round the perimeter, keeping to the shadows and silent as shadow herself, until she was under the towering structure and next to the winch mechanism. She considered this for a moment, but decided that, even if she could work out how to use it, the noise would be too risky.

Looking over the edge of the cliff, she could see nothing but two ropes going down into darkness. The cliff face from this point of view was in shadow and she had no idea how far below Jess was or how he was fastened. Even if she had something with which to cut the ropes, it would be stupid to do so with no idea of exactly what lay beneath except that it was a long drop. Besides, there might be a guard or even a gloating spectator or two. It was fortunate that a little further on she found a narrow and extremely steep path, which seemed to head in the right direction – down!

After several nasty moments – bare feet and a long dress were hardly helpful in negotiating a precipitous and rocky ledge – she edged round a couple of projecting bluffs and found herself back in the moonlight and only a few feet from Jess. The ropes from the gantry were bound tightly to his wrists, suspending him by his arms above the path. He had been pulled up just high enough so that he could get his toes onto the rock ledge under him, pushing up to relieve the weight on his arms and allowing himself to breath more easily – but not for long. As an exercise in cruelty, the punishment was excruciating. At the moment he was slumped forward, blood still running down the side of his face and soaking into his shirt. His eyes were closed, a line of bruises darkened his cheek and jaw, and he was breathing slowly and painfully, as if conserving every breath. Nonetheless, he was alert, and the instant she moved out of the shadow of the bluff, his eyes flashed open, startlingly blue even in the moonlight. He greeted her with a fierce grin: "We must stop meetin' on cliffs like this."

"It's getting to be a habit," she agreed with an answering smile; one which, however, was still tinged with the anger she felt on a number of counts.

"I'd call this more'n a habit!" He was looking her up and down with a certain air of déjà vu. "Is a ball gown what you usually wear for climbin'?" he demanded, then added, "O yeah, I forgot the first time we met."

"I was on a date!"

"Not when we met, y' weren't."

"Tonight, you idiot!"

"Yeah – y' can explain to me what the devil you thought you were doin' later," he said absently, as he shifted his weight once more and drew in a couple of deep breaths.

Chantal was not going to stand for this from a man who had just got himself entangled with a married woman, but it would have to wait. "Where's your knife?"

"Left boot, on the inside."

She pulled it out and was about to make short work of the first rope when he stopped her with a petrified yelp: "Don't!"

"What's the matter? I thought you wanted to be cut down?"

"Poco tonto, think what y're doin'!" Jess implored. "If y' cut through one rope, I'm gonna drop down at the end of the other. It'll pull my arm out of its socket, even if it don't actually break my shoulder!"

Chantal gave an involuntary shudder at the thought of this and asked hastily, "What are we going to do?"

"Y' saw almost through both ropes, the same distance. Then we pull hard an' when they snap at the same time - with luck - end up down there." He jerked his chin towards the dark water below.

"Is it deep enough?"

"Yeah – they bring big boats up here with supplies. Lucky there's none below right now. We've got a clear jump."

"We?" Chantal stared at him in surprise. "Are you expecting me to jump too?"

"Of course you're jumpin' with me! You don't think I'd leave you here, now, do y'?" he demanded impatiently. Then, seeing her bewildered expression, he explained with an air of one addressing a small child: "It ain't gonna take long for them to work it out. Anyone with the brains of a flea could see you're the one most likely to cut me down. 'Cos the only other candidate is June Dark – an' she certainly ain't gonna be savin' my hide, is she?"

"Even though you spent the night with her?" The words tumbled from Chantal's lips before she could stop them.

"I spent a damn' uncomfortable night sleepin' in an armchair!" Jess growled defensively.

There was a startled silence as both of them realised they had given away rather more than they intended. Jess was once more the quickest to recover, reverting single-mindedly to his original point: "An' you ain't jumpin' into a river with me dressed like that! Get that dress off."

"Otherwise you'll rip it off, I suppose?" Chantal scowled, remembering the fate of her shirt the first time they met. This was hardly fair, as she was totally disregarding the fact that it had been a complete accident and not certainly Jess's intention at the time. In any case, the suggested action would be extremely difficult for him, tied up as he was.

"You suppose nothing of the kind!" he retorted irritably, hitching another couple of painful deep breaths. "You'll just damn' well do as I tell you!"

Resisting a temptation to reply "Dans tes rêves!" for the sheer hell of it, Chantal settled for smiling sweetly at him, at least until he went on: "And if that's a corset you're wearin', take that off too!"

"What would you know about corsets?"

"Enough to know you can't swim in 'em. Now get a move on, Tal - my arms ain't gonna hold out for ever!"

Chantal glowered at him for a moment, before beating a retreat round the convenient corner in the rock. This was not from any sense of modesty – after all she was shortly going to be swimming in her underwear – but because she was darned if Jess was going to see her struggling with anything, even the awkward fastening of a ball-gown. As she did so she reflected that, every time they met, Jess Harper had a devastating effect on whatever she was wearing and didn't seem to give a dollar what she was wearing or she looked like - except for her hair. Sure enough, when she emerged again minus the dress, he just glared at her piled up tresses and, with what little breath he had, snarled: "An' loose y' hair - tie it back. You won't see a thing if that creation collapses in the water."

Dropping her bundle of clothing, Chantal followed this sensible procedure with a sigh. When she had done so, Jess continued to issue orders: "Roll the whalebone up loosely, so there's space for air. Now fold it in the dress – keep it loose an' full of air - then tie the dress into a bundle as tight as y' can."

She did this, demanding grumpily at the same time, "What on earth is all this in aid of?"

"In aid of somethin' which'll float an' give us some buoyancy. Now, can y' pull my boots off an' use the straps to fasten them to my belt?"

This done, the final instruction was: "When the rope goes, grab the loose end – it'll keep us together. Once we're in the water, use the bundle to help you float. An' we're goin' upstream, not down!"

"Pour l'amour de Dieu!" Chantal groaned. "If I'd known rescuing you was going to be so complicated and such hard work, Jess Harper, I'd never have started!"

"Yes, y' would," he told her softly. "Now, use the knife carefully! Ready?" When she nodded, he began, against all expectation, to laugh and added: "An' can y' hold my hand, please?"

"Only for a very good reason!"

" 'Cause I _hate_ heights!"

Seconds later a double splash shattered the surface of the river.

* * *

Translations:

Dans tes rêves. In your dreams.

Pour l'amour de Dieu. For the love of God.


	6. Chapter 6

_The Company of Strangers_

Jantallian

 **6**

A couple of miles up-river and some time later, a little rowing boat nudged into an outcropping of rocks and grated to a halt. The occupants were less harmonious than the co-operation required to power the craft actually suggested. There had, for instance, been some considerable dispute between them about rowing it in the first place.

"Y' didn't think we were goin' to swim far against that current, did y'?" Jess had panted as he heaved himself into it. Chantal had found herself grasped by both arms and lifted bodily after him.

"I can get in by myself, Gamberro!" she hissed irritably.

"Ok, when we've got time, I'll push you overboard an' y' can demonstrate! Right now, we need to shut up and work out how to row."

"You didn't even ask if I could swim, never mind row!"

"Figured you'd have the sense to tell me if you couldn't." His eyes gleamed momentarily in the moonlight and Chantal could have sworn that, despite the bruises, bleeding, partial asphyxiation and immersion in cold water, he was enjoying himself. "Let's see if we can get this thing goin' – it'll sure beat swimmin'."

"You mean you've never rowed before?" When Jess confessed that the most he had done was to paddle a canoe, it had taken some minutes of furious whispering for her first to give vent to her opinion and then to explain to him how to row a boat. Once this was settled, they managed reasonably successfully with an oar each, probably because they had to conserve their breath for the effort instead to exchanging muttered insults and imprecations.

Now the boat was safely beached a reasonable distance from their enemies. Chantal scrambled out on to the rocks and found, to her surprise, they were warm.

"Hot springs," Jess explained. "The pools warm the rocks all the time. Spread this out and get it dry." He tossed the bundle of clothing at her and turned back to give the boat a push into mid-stream.

"Nom de Dieu! What are you doing?" Chantal demanded.

"If they find the boat gone, they'll expect us to go downstream – it's quicker and easier," Jess pointed out. "I'm just encouragin' them to look that way, not up here."

"You're just making sure we have to walk!" Chantal complained bitterly.

"Maybe. But not until it's full daylight," she was told. "And now's not the time for countin' the stars, either! Go an' find a nice, hot bathin' pool and warm up." He must have seen her expression, because one eyebrow quirked in amusement, as he added, "I'll stay and watch – the river."

"Why, you -!" Chantal flew at him, but with rather less than her usual vigour, in an attack which Jess easily fended off. "If I didn't know better," she continued crossly, "I'd think you arranged this on purpose!"

"I did in a way - made it m' business to know the country round here," he told her matter-of-factly. "Now get a move on, PT. Y'ain't the only one whose teeth are chatterin'!"

It was already dawn and, after a blissful immersion in one of the hot pools, Chantal returned to find Jess stretched out on a warm, sloping boulder, soaking up the first rays of sunlight. All the same, he was not asleep but on watch, and simply handed over the responsibility for their safety to her as he disappeared in search of a pool of his own.

Chantal retrieved the boot-knife, with which Jess had cut off the remains of his rope-bonds, and set about making short work of her elaborate party dress: the result was calf-length, practical and decent, if decidedly ragged and minus a great deal of superfluous material. She grinned ruefully to herself as she pulled on this still damp garment, remembering her careful dressing in the hotel in Denver which seemed so very long ago; if anything was going to impress Jess, it certainly wasn't going to be her wardrobe.

His own attire wasn't much better when he returned, since the state of his shirt was in no way improved by recent activities. He simply rolled it up and stuck it under his head as a pillow, because, by daylight, they had found a better hollow in the rocks, concealed from any traffic on the river and much safer as a resting place. Boulders certainly didn't make a comfortable mattress for anyone, but Chantal just wadded up the remains of her dress and followed Jess's example. It was not long before they were both sleeping peacefully in the glow of the hot springs and the warmth of the increasing sunlight.

Exhaustion could only outweigh the discomfort of the rocks for so long. It was the first time ever Chantal had slept outside on the ground and she woke feeling stiff and bruised, but surprisingly refreshed. She opened her eyes and sat up slowly. Her companion was curled up on his side, looking as if he might jump into action at any moment, despite apparently being deeply asleep; his right hand was resting lightly on the handle of the knife. Chantal could see blood still seeping from the cut under his hair and he was going to have a fine set of bruises and scrapes covering him more or less from head to foot.

As she was considering what could be done about this, Jess woke up with a suddenness which suggested he had never been asleep at all. He sat up, stretched and regarded the rope-burns on his wrists with disfavour: "Sure could do with some o' that comfrey mixture right now!"

"You mean you don't carry a saucepan around with you? Qué lástima!" She reached for the remnant of her cotton underskirt and, tearing off a strip, bandaged his head-wound without further comment.

"Gracias!" he murmured absently as he pulled on the crumpled remains of his shirt.

"De nada." Chantal was watching him carefully. "Are you -?"

"I'm fine!"

"Oh." She thought some more and decided that Jess's definition of 'fine' could not possibly be the one which other English speakers normally employed. She tried another couple of languages, just to be sure: "Parfait? Bueno?"

"Si!" He seemed to be engaged in working something out, because it was a few seconds before he reconnected with their conversation. Then he waved a hand at the surroundings and added with a grin: "Como el hotel!"

"The baths are good," Chantal pointed out, "but I guess the restaurant is closed!"

"Don't remind me – I'm starvin'!"

"Nothing like a brisk walk before breakfast!" Actually there was nothing Chantal disliked more and she could see by his face Jess felt the same. All he said, however, was "Give me that corset."

"Have you got a thing about -?"

"I'm waitin'!" Patience clearly was not his forte at this time in the morning, especially after a trying night. Chantal handed it over silently and watched, fascinated, as he proceeded to extract the whalebone and shape it into a small curve with his knife. When he had two pieces, he bent each one into a little horseshoe-shape and wrapped it tightly in strips cut from the remains of her dress. These he inserted into the heel of each of his boots and pushed further material down into the toes. Then he looked up at her and Chantal could have sworn, for the first time ever, he looked slightly apologetic. It wasn't long before she knew why.

"You'd better put some socks on." He picked up his own from the rock where they had been drying.

Chantal regarded them with the critical eye of one who has been taught needlework by an expert. After an appreciable pause, she said firmly: "Those are not socks. They are a darning disaster!"

"Ain't askin' you to darn them."

"That is just as well. I do not _– repeat not –_ darn socks!" Somehow this seemed enormously important to establish.

"Just put them on, will y'!" He seized her foot unexpectedly and ran a hand across the soft skin of her sole. "And the boots. You need some kind o' protection and this is the best I can do."

"What about you?" Chantal's voice was muffled by bending over to pull on the footwear as she complied, for once, without protest.

"Went barefoot often enough as a kid," he told her briefly. "Ain't got soft yet."

Given the way they were both shod, their progress was necessarily slow. It was not long, however, before Chantal realised they were walking back towards the Turner mansion, parallel to the river, but some way inland of it. She stopped and demanded "Why are we going back?"

"Apart from the fact that Armand might still be there? Because my horse, my hat an' my gun also happen to be there and I ain't leavin' without them."

They trudged on some more. Chantal had registered already that the two men were on first name terms and presently asked curiously: "Why were you there, rescuing my father, anyway?"

"Leaving aside that he _is_ your father, y' mean?" Jess halted and looked down at her, his expression inscrutable and business-like. "We knew there was an extortion racket goin' on – top businessmen and their families threatened and forced to pay up, some of them on a regular basis. None of them ever saw who was doin' the threatenin'- they were all kept locked up and blindfolded, like Armand. Jim Dark's been after Turner for months an' Turner was gettin' real edgy, enough maybe to take him out. We had to get someone inside the operation, but Jim's too well known as a law-man. That's what I was doin'."

"But you killed him!"

"I very carefully did not kill him! The bullet went through the edge of his vest, under the arm he lifted out of the way. In a public street we couldn't use blanks – it needed to be for real. So did the reason - hence June Dark!" A grimace twisted his face for a moment, before he added: "Took us a hell of a lotta practice to get it right."

"You didn't kill him …" Chantal's voice sounded as though a sob might be trying to break through if she would let it.

Jess looked at her thoughtfully, then he took hold of her chin and made her raise her eyes to his. His expression was still entirely business-like. "But I could've done. Ain't never killed anyone who didn't draw on me first. Or anyone in less than a fair fight. But yeah – I have killed people." He drew in a deep breath, steeling himself to give the absolute truth, and added: "Used to do it for a livin'. But not anymore."

"What made you stop?"

"Findin' out there were people who'd care if I died …"

Chantal recalled the hard wood of the window sill digging into her arms, the taut silence of the emptied street, the hot wind carrying the smell of gun-smoke, a woman huddled over a fallen body. "Yes," she said, in tones as matter-of-fact as his own.

It was a few minutes before they started walking again. After a while, Jess said, with the determined air of one laying out the terms of a treaty: "Once y' gotta rep, y' can't shake it. Ain't no good standin' there claimin' to be retired. I still practise t' keep fast. And sooner or later, I ain't gonna be fast enough. You understand, Tal?"

Chantal nodded. "Or you might fall off a cliff or get caught in a stampede or be struck by lightning or go down with a fever or break your neck falling off a horse or be run over by a stagecoach or –"

"Whoa!" Jess implored laughingly, "You're makin' me feel ill."

"Or you could just live to a sober, respectable old age."

"Sober is kind of borin'…"

"De verdad? Very well, Temerario, a wildly exciting old age that will cause your cautious, upright grandchildren to gasp with horror!"

One eyebrow was raised quizzically. "You don't figure on the kids bein' sober and respectable?"

Chantal just looked at him and laughed outright.

# # # # #

By mid-morning, all the parties concerned in the previous evening's events were feeling varying degrees of consternation.

It was not until after a leisurely breakfast that Emory Turner remembered Jess Harper had been entrusted with the key to the prisoner's room. His first action was to yell to his men and demand that someone search Harper – and, as an afterthought, cut him down and bring him back into the dining room.

His men felt considerable misgivings when they found nothing but two frayed ropes where the gun-slinger had been tied up.

"You mean you didn't set a guard?" Emory demanded angrily.

"But we never do, boss! Y'know no-one's ever got away from there. They couldn't."

"Harper did!" Emory paused in deep thought.

Rick wandered into the room, yawning. Turner glared at his son as if it were his fault and snapped, "Harper's escaped!"

Rick's eyes widened. "Impossible! Nobody escapes from there."

"So you all say," his father retorted, favouring the men before him with a furious glare. "Harper seems to have managed it. Someone explain to me how!"

"The ropes were cut, Mr Turner."

"He couldn't have done that himself." Emory turned on Rick again. "Where's the girl?"

"I don't know. I didn't spend the night with her!"

"More fool you! Because it looks like someone else did!"

"You don't know it was her. She might just be sleeping in."

She wasn't.

"And where's that damn Dark woman?"

But June had quietly driven off just before sunrise.

# # # # #

June was a little disconcerted to find the prisoner already under the seat of her buggy. She knew Jess planned to release him during the night, but had not expected him to be hidden for so long. The conditions were no doubt uncomfortable, yet she dare not risk him being seen and was determined he would stay put until they got safely back to Denver.

Unfortunately Armand Picard was accustomed to making his own decisions. He was not at all clear what had happened during the night but he had no intention of leaving until he was sure that his daughter was safely out of Turner's clutches. He was perfectly confident Jess would move heaven and earth to achieve this and that the pair of them would no doubt turn up sooner or later, probably wrangling or even fighting. Nonetheless, he intended to do everything in his own power to make sure of this outcome. No sooner had they got out of view of the Turner residence than he unfolded himself from his cramped position, took over the reins and drove like a madman for the nearest piece of woodland.

# # # # #

Jim Dark was totally disconcerted to see the buggy heading straight for his hiding place. _Surely June had more sense?_ They worked as a team and June knew her part in the plan. _What had happened to change the details? And who on earth was that driving her?_

# # # # #

Jess looked momentarily disconcerted as Chantal demanded: "What about June Dark?"

"What about her?" He rapidly assumed his most totally innocent expression, but he was pretty sure it was not cutting any ice with Chantal.

They were sitting side by side on a convenient tree-trunk. Chantal had finally admitted she could walk no further in her improvised footgear without acquiring serious blisters. Jess had responded by summoning Traveller.

This he did by cupping his hands and whistling a low but piecing, wavering note which sounded curiously like a bird's cry. After he had repeated this several times, he had indicated the log as a good resting place, saying as they sat down: "The wind's in the right direction and we should be close enough for the sound to carry. Just hope they ain't tied him or put him back in the stable. Might take a bit longer if they have." After which he proceeded to teach her how to call his horse in this surreptitious way and also the piercing whistle he used in emergencies when he needed Traveller in a hurry.

When this latest lesson had been successfully completed, Chantal decided to use the hiatus in their walk to get to the bottom of what had happened in Denver. Jess decided he had seriously underestimated her capacity for determined interrogation.

"Not only did you stay the night with her –"

"In a chair, I told y'!"

"And you let the entire town think you were –"

"It was necessary, I told y'!"

"In public! From a hotel balcony!"

"It wouldn't have damn well worked in private, would it?" Jess retorted, sounding harassed, as well he might.

"You also hit her!" Chantal pointed out indignantly.

Jess looked as if he might repeat the performance then and there if she continued to castigate him about something he had been so reluctant to be part of in the first place. "Escúchame! I did nothin' of the sort! There's plenty of methods of makin' it look that way, that's all."

"And you kicked her husband when he was dead!"

Jess gave a growl of exasperation. "Do you listen to a thing I'm tellin' you? It was a set-up. The whole thing was staged. He's a good friend an' I don't go round killin' my friends." A momentary shadow of recollection dimmed the brightness of his eyes. "Not my real friends, anyway … An' if all of us get out of this alive, I'll introduce you to Jim myself!"

"And is his wife a friend?" Chantal demanded.

"I can't stand the woman!" Jess replied with utterly frank, although perhaps somewhat exaggerated, sincerity. "It's Slim who's sweet on her, not me. An' it's all his fault for bustin' his ankle so's I had to take his place."

"He couldn't have pulled off that shot," Chantal told him confidently. Jess looked dumbfounded, as if he had not realised she was any judge of gun-skill. "So you don't get out of it as easily as you think, mi amigo inteligente."

"PT, will you give over before I do somethin' drastic to you!" A distinct gleam came into Jess's eyes as he decided attack was the best form of defence: "And _you_ still haven't explained why the hell y' got mixed up with Rick Turner and caused all this trouble in the first place?"

"Because you were with that woman, that's why! I wrote you, but then I couldn't get the note to you. You didn't know I was there!"

"Don't be stupid! You were in the hotel lobby. D'y' think I could be so close to you and not know?" Both eyebrows had shot up incredulously, almost disappearing into the tangled forelock below the bandage, and he sounded astounded that she could imagine any such a thing. "But I had to go through with the plan. An' I had no idea you were gonna get mixed up in it. Next time, don't go harin' off with some stranger! Just stand up and shout, wave your arms or something, when y' need my help - it'll make things a lot simpler."

It is doubtful whether this last statement was either logical or true, but at that moment there was a sound of hoof-beats and Traveller appeared through the bushes, trailing a broken halter. In no time at all, they were riding back to the place they had taken so much trouble to escape from.

* * *

Translations:

Gamberro Thug

Qué lástima. What a pity.

Como el hotel. Like the hotel.

De verdad? Really?

Temerario. Reckless one.

Escúchame. (Will you) listen to me. (Probably the most frequent thing Jess says to Chantal!)

Mi amigo inteligente My clever friend.


	7. Chapter 7

_The Company of Strangers_

Jantallian

 **7**

The finding of the rowing boat, several miles downstream from the mansion, had exactly the effect Jess intended. Turner's men did not stop to ask themselves why the boat should have been abandoned or how the escapees had continued their journey. They were only too glad to give some positive news to their irate boss.

This was because the discovery, following the breaking down of the locked door, that their prize prisoner was also missing had done nothing to improve Emory Turner's temper. He was not given to cursing. He simply directed all his malice and energy to pursuing and capturing the missing parties. He wasn't sure where June Dark fitted into all this, but he was not going to spare her either if he caught up with her. Since June had presumably also headed for Denver, Turner and his men focused their attention in that direction. And since there was no prisoner to guard in the house, every man was ordered out on the hunt, leaving the place deserted.

Thus it was that Jess and Jim Dark came within an ace of actually killing each other.

Jess and Chantal made a cautious approach to the stables, but found, as Jess had hoped, there was no sign of anyone. Even the stable-hands had been co-opted into the man-hunt. Traveller had obviously been tied to the hitching rail, judging by its dilapidated condition and the frayed rope still hanging from it. The horse stopped and stood obediently when Jess told him to.

"Can you remember what my saddle looks like?" Jess asked, and when Chantal nodded, he went on, "It should be on the back wall of the barn, with the bridle and saddlebags hangin' above it. If y' can find any guns or ammunition, put them in the saddlebags. Saddle Traveller and another horse. Then get on Trav and drive any others out of the paddock and chase them off. Don't make any noise. Just drive 'em hard!"

She nodded again and was about to start following these instructions, when she realised she'd have to walk through Jess to do so. He was standing looking down at her, with that appealing crooked half-smile which usually indicated he was up to something. But he just put his hands on either side of her face and tilted it towards his own. "And promise me somethin'!"

"What?"

She could tell it was serious, because he said in Spanish: "Haz lo que yo digo esto una vez!"

"Siempre hago!" Chantal told him, with much feeling but complete disregard for the facts.

Jess shook his head. "No, y' don't! But this time, it's important. Promise me!" His smile had been replaced by the kind of steely-eyed determination she had learnt, from the first time they met, not to argue with.

"Digame."

"If there's any fightin', you get on Trav and you ride hell for leather for the nearest cover. Then get to Denver, if you can."

"But –" She did not get any further with her protest, because Jess had more than one way of reinforcing his orders.

"Promise me!" he insisted very softly.

"I promise, but –" It was another few moments before she was allowed to continue, "But I'm bringing a posse back with me!"

"Yeah, good idea." Jess drew out his knife and handed it to her. "You may not find any guns. So if anyone tries to grab y', don't hesitate - slash their hand or their arm. Don't stop to do any fancy thinkin' – the pain of a knife-cut's usually enough!" And with that, he was gone.

Because Chantal was carrying out his orders in the barn, she and Jim Dark missed each other by moments. Jim was almost on Jess's heels up the path which mounted to the top of the bluff and the main entrance, but the steep and curving nature of the ascent meant that buttresses and shadows hid them from each other.

Once inside, Jess lost no time in making for the employees' quarters, where he was relieved to find his hat still hanging behind the door. His other minimal belongings were below in his saddlebags, which he trusted Chantal had retrieved. A smile flickered across his face as he recalled her protests at not being allow to join in whatever fighting might ensue. Maybe he shouldn't have taught her how to use a rifle quite so well! Or had he? He remembered momentarily her comment on the skill needed for that fake killing of Jim Dark, but pushed it to the back of his mind, to be dealt with later. More important now, he had to find his gun-belt.

The obvious place to look was the dining room, where it had been pulled off him. He had some hope of finding food there as well, but neither search produced any rewards. He figured they were both going to go hungry for a while longer. In this situation, weapons were the priority. A further search located a gun-store, where he was able to appropriate a hand-gun, a couple of rifles and ammunition. He shoved the gun in the waistband of his pants, hitched the rifles over his shoulder and stowed the bullets in another saddlebag for easy carrying. But he still hadn't located his own gun – and he had no intention of leaving without it. He decided the next most likely place would be Emory Turner's study. A good search for evidence in there would not come amiss either.

Jim had exactly the same idea.

Jess was busy trying to pick the locks on the desk with a letter opener and mentally wishing he had another knife. He had no doubt that Chantal would make good use of his if the need arose, but the opener was nothing like as effective. He was squatting behind the desk when he heard soft footsteps in the passage outside.

Jim had used his common sense and the details given him by June, in locating the main accommodation of the rather elaborate and confusing building. After drawing blank at several bedroom doors, he back-tracked past the main day rooms and eventually found the passage with the study. The door, unlike most of the others, was slightly ajar. He could hear faint sounds from within. He edged cautiously up to the doorway and peered through the narrow gap. As far as he could see, the room was empty. Nonetheless, he was sure that there was someone in there, probably hiding behind the big desk. He drew his gun.

"Come out with your hands up!"

No sooner had he burst into the room and put a bullet through the desk than another hit the carpet between his feet as someone yelled simultaneously: "Drop that gun!"

"Good God!" Jim found he was actually shaking with reaction. "You nearly put a slug in me for sure this time!"

"Did not!" Jess squirmed out from under the desk. "If I was aimin' at y', it _would_ be in you!" He scowled and said irritably, "An' d'you realise you nearly took my head off?" He rubbed his face with his sleeve, where the splinters from the desk had contributed further to his already battered appearance. Then he began to laugh: "Ain't done much for Turner's fancy furniture, either!"

"Did you find anything?"

Jess shook his head. "Can't get the drawers open with this." He tossed the letter opener back on the desk with a growl of disgust. "Still, I suppose we don't need any more evidence because Armand is willing to testify."

"If we can get him back to court in one piece."

"What? He 'n June should be in Denver by now!"

"Really? I think he's got some idea about making sure his daughter is safe," Jim replied dryly.

"She's fine!"

It was a good job Jim was not yet familiar with Jess's peculiar use of this word. He merely asked, "Where is she?"

"In the stables, saddlin' up some horses for us," Jess told him briefly.

Jim eyed him with interest. If June's suppositions were right, Jess was being remarkable cool about the danger Chantal might be facing. He decided to hurry things up, just in case. He put a bullet into each of the locked drawers, remarking as he did so: "Furniture's got shot up already – and if he is guilty, he won't be in any position to lodge a complaint!"

In a rapid search of the drawers they discovered not only Jess's gun-belt and gun, but a number of interesting letters and some very revealing bank payments. Jim shook his head: "Some people are so stupid!"

"Maybe not. This place is like a fortress," Jess pointed out. "Guess y' wouldn't expect anyone to be robbin' it."

The reminder was timely. "Then let's get out of here before someone comes and traps us in it!"

This foreboding became a reality with alarming swiftness. Jim happened to glance out of the window while Jess was strapping on his beloved gun. His gasp of alarm drew the Texan swiftly to his side. They were looking down at the main approach to the mansion and the winding track leading back towards the woods where Jim had left his wife and his chief witness concealed.

Concealed no longer! The buggy was speeding along the track hotly pursued by a cloud of dust which could only hide the hostile search party. It was obvious that Armand was driving straight for the ascent to the house. It was less obvious that he was going to make it safely. Jim and Jess hurled to the rescue.

# # # # #

The buggy thundered into the yard and was immediately hustled out of sight into the shelter once more.

"Stay there!" Jim ordered June, not bothering to find out why they had fled from hiding. "We'll try to hold them off on the ramp."

"Ain't this where we started?" Jess asked plaintively as he handed Armand a rifle and some ammunition.

"Vraiment!" the Frenchman replied. "But they were too numerous, combing the woods. We barely got clear away to here."

"An' here we're gonna stay unless we can think of something fast!" Jess pointed out, as he snapped off a couple of shots to deter the horsemen from simply storming up the ramp.

Jim glared at him. "Very helpful!" he said ironically, adding a volley of his own.

Armand sighted carefully and picked of two of the enemy in rapid succession, before turning to his two-time rescuer. "I trust Chantal is not here with you?"

Jess grinned. "I trust she's doin' exactly what I told her – but somehow, I doubt it!"

"And that was?"

"To high-tail it for cover if there was any fightin'." Jess inched round a protective rock-face and continued to fire rapidly.

"Alas – the only cover is full of Turner's men," Chantal's father pointed out.

"Yeah. Well, she ain't stupid an' she's got plenty of courage. If she's found a gun, she's a good shot."

Armand was perfectly certain Jess would never have admitted any such thing if Chantal had been within hearing, but he was somewhat comforted by this assessment. "She may be in a better position than us."

"Can't be much worse," Jim told them realistically. "We're trapped."

"Yeah, but maybe we can turn that to our advantage," Jess suggested.

Jim's eyebrows shot up and he said sarcastically, "Really? How can this fortress do anything other than corral us? At the very least, we're dependent on the arrival of more forces to drive off the lot who've got us pinned down. Admittedly I asked Stan Peterson to send a posse out here if we weren't back by noon today, but we have to hold them off until then."

"Just listen!" Jess ordered. "Once you're in here, you're trapped. There's only two ways out an' we're defendin' one of them -" He paused momentarily to loose another volley of shots at the search party. When the enemy had momentarily retreated, he continued: "So we let 'em rush us – bust through this gate – an' you and me, we lure them further into the building, so they ain't thinkin' about what's goin' on down here. Then Armand and June make a break for it, lockin' the main gate behind them."

Jim regarded him with a look which suggested that his estimation of Jess's sanity had just fallen several notches.

Jess continued, undeterred: "We lure them into the building. Soon as they're in, we beat it through the back door, lockin' it behind us. The door's six inches of solid oak, bound with iron. There's no way they can easily break out. You said y'self the place is like a fortress. We'll have the keys to the only two entrances. So all we have to do is wait for a posse to haul 'em out and arrest 'em."

Total silence, apart from sporadic gun-fire exchanged with the enemy below, greeted this extraordinary plan.

Armand was the first to respond. "Are you sure the main gate will lock?"

"Yeah – there's a huge key in it. If y' take that, there ain't no way they're goin' t' find another in a hurry."

"And I suppose you're sure the back door will lock as well?" Jim sounded anything but sure himself.

"Tal says there's a key as well as bolts," Jess told him definitely, "an' I trust her."

* * *

Translations:

Haz lo que yo digo esto una vez. Do what I say this once.

Siempre hago. I always do. (Another frequent, if inaccurate, response from Chantal to Jess's orders)

Digame. Tell me.

Vraiment Truly


	8. Chapter 8

_The Company of Strangers_

Jantallian

 **8**

Unaware of the accolades she was receiving about her prowess with a rifle and the reliability of her observation – both of which were justified – Chantal had taken refuge in the hay barn. She figured it was a less likely place to search for her and Traveller than the horse barn, added to which it had two exits and a good look-out from the loft. _Ok, she had promised Jess she would head for cover and even for Denver, but there was no way that was going to happen now._ Chantal reasoned that, however angry breaking her word made him, he would prefer her to use her common sense and stay alive and uncaptured if she could. Fortunately, her search had been successful and she was now armed with a rifle as well as the knife.

She watched with astonishment as the buggy hurled past on the track to the house. Despite the perilous situation, she could not help grinning at her father's driving – Jehu himself would be hard put to keep up with it! She held her breath until the equipage disappeared through the gate into the courtyard. At least they were moderately safe – but so much for all the elaborate activity in order to free her father! Now they were back more or less where they had started, except that the enemy knew what was going on and the pursuing party was already laying down fire cover aimed at inching their way up to the summit.

There was answering fire from at least three rifles in the house. Jess, presumably, and her father, obviously, and Jim Dark, probably. They seemed to be holding off the advancing men. Then, unaccountably, the defenders began to retreat. Maybe they were running out of ammunition? Chantal caught her breath as the attackers stormed up the climb and swiftly disappeared through the gate. The sound of gunfire became muffled, as if it were coming from inside the building. That made sense, if the defenders were taking cover.

Suddenly, to her total surprise, the buggy shot out of the gate again. Behind it ran a man, dragging the huge iron gate closed behind him. No sooner had he done so than he leapt into the seat, seized the reins from the driver and sent the buggy thundering back down the path in a most hair-raising fashion. Chantal grinned. The manner of this descent was pretty typical of what she would expect from Jess, but the man had been too tall. Her father, again, then. He just hated being driven by anyone else!

The buggy skidded to a halt in the middle of the yard. Chantal waited to see what would happen next. Her fervent wish was to make sure her father, exasperating though he was at times, was safe and free – a desire which was entirely reciprocated! But the situation was so volatile that she was not sure of the best course of action and there was no point in acting rashly. This proved a sensible decision.

"My dear Mrs Dark, whatever are you doing, charging about the countryside like this?" It was Emory Turner. "And who is your gentleman friend? Not another gunslinger, I sincerely hope? As a widow in mourning, I would expect more decorum from you." He was standing just inside the door of the horse-barn; two men were behind him and Chantal caught the glint of a rifle from the open hatch of its loft.

Before June could open her mouth, Armand said dryly, "I think you know perfectly well who I am, Emory."

"I – why, can it be? Armand Picard? I had no idea –" The dissimulation was well done. "You must pardon my initial reaction! Do let me offer you my hospitality."

Unfortunately the smooth attempt at deception was completely wasted, since four other people knew exactly what hospitality Armand had suffered. The fact that he had been blindfolded was not, as it were, going to pull the wool over anyone else's eyes.

Armand turned his head towards the house, where sporadic gunfire could still be heard. "Your hospitality is rapidly losing its attraction for me, Emory!" His voice was still as dry as the best white wine he imported. "I suggest you give up this pretence and surrender to the law now."

"Law? I don't see any lawmen to surrender to," Emory said smoothly.

"In that case, I must make the arrest myself!"

Chantal's breath choked in her throat as her father raised his rifle. Three shots rang out almost simultaneously. Armand's missed Turner by a hair's breadth, but the first shot from the barn-loft blasted the rifle from his hands and the second ripped through the hood of the buggy, leaving no doubt that the occupants were in acute danger.

"I suggest you abandon any such idea," Turner retorted. "You are covered and out-gunned. You have no back-up, since my men have pinned down any support you might be relying on. Thank your lucky stars you're not a dead man!"

No sooner had he said this than Chantal put three bullets neatly between his feet, as Jess had taught her ("don't go aimin' higher unless you mean it!").

"The next one is going straight through your hat, Turner!" she yelled. "Tell your men to throw down their weapons or you'll be the dead man!"

The man in the loft aimed for her, but Chantal was quicker and snapped off a shot which sent him dodging back for cover. "I mean it!" She took careful aim and blasted another bullet perilously close to the hat in question.

Turner made an angry gesture and the two men with him threw down their guns. Armand was quick to jump from the buggy, retrieve his own weapon and sight on the man in the loft. "You too!" Moments later the rifle thudded down to join the others. Armand scooped them up and backed off to the buggy. He handed one to June and tossed the rest in the back. Then he gestured to Turner. "Over there, face the wall and get your hands up!"

Chantal remained where she was. Having Turner covered was all important, however much she wanted to join in the pleasure of tying up this rogue and his thugs. Besides, they did not know how the fight in the house had turned out. The gunfire had ceased. Could two men hold out against the dozen attacking them? Or had they been captured? It was impossible to tell, but she could do nothing about that. Common sense suggested remaining where she had some kind of protection. Chantal was not always sensible: in fact impetuosity might have been her middle name. No doubt this was what made her a kindred spirit to Jess, in whom there was a very similar tendency to jump in with both feet without thinking. But she remembered that she had given her word. There would be a blistering row about breaking it and almost certainly another over plaiting her loose hair into a braid because it was more practical in the circumstances. _No sense in compounding her guilt by coming out of hiding when she had taken the sensible precaution of being safe_. She stayed where she was.

But not for long. Soon she could re-join her father, for, as she watched triumphantly, June found rope in the barn and immobilised the men, while Armand kept them covered. Chantal might have been forgiven for a small smirk of pride as she reflected that the three of them had rounded up the leaders of this scheme without any help from Jess or Jim.

Her triumph was violently cut short.

"You little bitch!" The rifle was wrenched from her hands and flung out of the loft door into the yard. She felt the cold, flat blade of a knife against her neck. "I knew there was something between you and that gunslick!" Rick Turner caught hold of her plaited hair and forced her to turn towards him. "You cut him down, didn't you?"

When she did not answer, he twisted the hair even tighter, sending stabs of agony through her scalp. She was rapidly reviewing the ways of escape with which having three brothers and the benefit of Jess's coaching had gifted her, but soon realised that there was not much you could do when held at knife-point. She did not even have every young lady's secret weapon, the high heels, any longer.

"Well, let's see how much you're actually worth. You needn't imagine Harper'll bother rescuing _you_. Not if he threw over June Dark. You really aren't in her league, are you?

If he had deliberately chosen a weapon, he could not have hurt her more, but Chantal steeled herself against the pain. She heard again: ' _D'y' think I could be so close to you and not know?_ ' and hung on to the words like a life-line as Rick dragged her down into the yard.

As they burst out of the hay barn, Rick shoved her to her knees and yanked her head back by the simple expedient of dragging her braid. The knife hovered a mere half-inch from her exposed throat.

"Picard! If you don't want to see blood of yours running, drop your weapon!"

It took only a split second for Armand to assess the situation and decide that this very unpleasant young man meant what he said. His rifle hit the dust.

"And you, Mrs Dark! Throw those rifles out – now!" This command too was promptly obeyed.

"Now untie my father and his men!" Rick jerked Chantal's hair again, causing her to hiss in protest, although she was determined not to give him the satisfaction of crying out if she could help it.

Emory Turner, released, rubbed his hands in satisfaction, as well as to restore the circulation. "I told you she wasn't worth it!"

No-one likes their parent saying 'I told you so' and Rick was no exception. The sneer enraged him further and he grabbed Chantal by the arm, dragging her across the yard to where an anvil stood outside the stable. The other men began to grin evilly. They knew what he was capable of when he lost his temper. Armand and June watched helplessly.

Rick forced Chantal to her knees again. He seized her by the wrist and held her open hand against the hard iron surface. "I'll teach you to use those pretty fingers to free my prisoner! How d'you think it will feel when I cut them off – one by one!"

Chantal tried to wrench away, glaring furiously at him. "You wouldn't dare!"

"Oh, wouldn't I? No-one's going to come to your rescue, so I've plenty of time to give you a little taster first!" The point of the knife touched her palm, then suddenly slashed across it and glanced upwards to slice her lower arm.

' _The pain of a knife-cut's usually enough.'_ Jess was right! But not so right that she was going to scream – yet.

"See?" Rick grinned. She had not been able to hold back a shuddering attempt to pull away again. "Ready?" Her tormentor was concentrating entirely on her face as he swung his arm back, preparing for a hacking stroke at her finger.

The knife began to descend with appalling swiftness.

A single gunshot split the air. The knife-blade shattered into fragments, splintering all over the torturer and his victim.

Immediately there was a rapid burst of rifle-fire and Turner's men found themselves disarmed and, in a couple of cases, nursing bullet wounds. Emory Turner himself was once more at the wrong end of Armand's weapon. But in all the chaos, Rick had not released his hold on Chantal. She ducked down, making herself as small as she could, in the hope that someone would put a bullet into him as well. Instead, figuring she was his best shield, Rick pulled her in front of him.

A rifle bolt clicked. It was behind him.

Then a voice growled: "Leave him, Jim!"

"Why?" Dark demanded, unwilling to let anyone get away with anything at this stage in the proceedings.

"Because I'm gonna beat the hell out of him!"

There was a dark blur of movement as a flying body somehow surmounted the corral fence in a single jump and, from it, leapt high over the crouching girl to knock Rick sprawling to the ground.

Suddenly released, Chantal stumbled away from the maelstrom that resulted from this precipitate attack, remembering the last fight when Jess had yelled at her to 'keep the hell out from under my feet!" Armand put an arm out to steady her, but she turned at once, tense with fear and anger, and willing only one result to the struggle. If Chantal thought she had seen Jess in black-bull mode before, she found out her error now. This time he was incandescent with rage, a red and black rage that made a goaded bull look mild by comparison and exploded into violence with the force of a volcano.

To give him his due, Rick put up a commendable resistance. He was both taller and heavier than Jess. And he had not spent the night being beaten up, hanging by his arms over a cliff-face, swimming in a cold river, rowing a boat and walking several miles barefoot. This did not seem to give him the advantage it should have done.

The two men staggered back and forth across the yard, trading punishing blows. Jess knocked Rick to the floor, picked him up by his collar and slammed another punch into him. Rick used his greater weight to force Jess back against the corral fence, but only ended up hitting the wood as Jess ducked at the last moment. Lunging forward, Jess head-butted him in the stomach and the pair of them rolled over and over until Rick somehow managed to stagger to his feet. Jess launched into a flying tackle but only succeeded in making his opponent stumble. The pause was enough and before Rick could recover, Jess scrambled up and hauled him round for another furious exchange of punches. For a moment it seemed that Rick was winning when he kicked Jess's feet from under him. But as he flung himself on his sprawling opponent, he suddenly found himself caught in a headlock and then heaved viciously through the air to land flat on his own back. In an instant, Jess was on top of him with his hands clamped round Rick's throat, banging his head on the ground. Rick flailed and struggled, gasping for breath as he tried to throw off this manic attack, but to no avail.

Jim shifted uneasily. He could not interfere without taking his eyes off the other men he was covering. Armand had his hands full enough with his daughter and Emory Turner. Jim doubted very much whether Jess would take the slightest notice of anything June said or did. All the same, he did not want to be arresting a corpse. He contemplated momentarily giving Jess a sharp tap on the skull with the butt of his rifle, but this somewhat risky procedure proved unnecessary.

Chantal walked quietly over to the struggling men and put her uninjured hand firmly on Jess's shoulder. "Es suficiente, toro negro!"

Jess stilled, his hands clamped round Rick's throat. Chantal repeated: "Suficiente!"

"Y' sure about that?"

"I think you've made your point," she said softly, "unless you have a specific reason for actually killing him?"

Jess jumped to his feet and glared at her. "He was hurtin' you! What the hell d'you expect me to do? Shake his hand?"

Chantal drew in a shaky breath. There had been times in the last twenty four hours when she had certainly thought she would like Rick Turner killed, but not, it now seemed, if Jess had to be the one to do it. "No. Just handcuff him, will you? I'd like to see him live long enough for the law to punish him."

"Lo que quieras!" Jess hauled a battered Rick to his feet and marched him over to the barn, where Jim was covering the other men while Armand and June tied them up again. Jess took particular pleasure in making sure Rick was secured so well that there was no chance at all of him breaking loose. Then he turned away and went over to Traveller, who had followed Chantal out when she had been dragged from the hay barn. He fished in one saddlebag and produced a roll of bandage. It wasn't exactly pristine on the outside, but the inside was clean enough.

"Pity Slim isn't here," he told Chantal as he took her hand and pressed a strip of the bandage hard against it.

"Ouch!" Chantal, who had made no sound when Rick had cut her, was not averse to letting Jess know he was hurting her. "Why?" she demanded.

"Because he always has a clean handkerchief!" Jess chuckled. "Now, just keep pressin' this for a bit before I bandage it. Y' lucky it missed the artery when he sliced up your arm. Pity we've no –"

"Comfrey?" Chantal suggested mischievously. "You really should have brought that saucepan - one or other of us always seems to be needing it."

"I was goin' to say needle and thread," Jess retorted. "Comfrey on its own won't do much for an open wound like this. It needs stitchin'."

"I can – ow!" Chantal did not get far with her protest, because she was interrupted by more pressure on the wound from Jess and some parental advice.

"Mais oui, ma fille, il a raison," Armand told his daughter firmly. "Faire ce qu'il tu dit!" He had been watching the bandaging operation carefully and with some hidden amusement. As he surmised, the pair were still capable of vigorous verbal sparring, which was reassuring, given the uniquely battered appearance of both of them.

Their appearances frankly appalled June, who was horrified at the transformation of elegant young woman she had dined with into a tired, grubby and blood-stained urchin in the ragged remains of a once-sophisticated dress. As for Jess! He was covered with blood, bruises, scrapes and cuts - and not much else, since his shirt had pretty well given up the struggle for existence in the fight. He'd been dusty enough when he arrived in Denver, but that looked comparatively clean compared with his state now. "She needs a doctor as soon as possible!" she exclaimed, sounding much more worried than any of them. "We have to get her to the city."

"You all need to get back to Denver!" Jim took charge firmly. "Jess, hurry the posse out here right away, if they haven't left already. June, you take Mr Picard back and make sure he arrives there this time."

"What about that lot?" Jess jerked his head towards the house, his hands being fully occupied with bandaging Chantal.

"They can't break down the door or the gate and I can easily pick off anyone who tries to get out of a window," Jim pointed out, "and this bunch," he glared at his prisoners, "can just sit here nice and quiet against the barn wall until reinforcements come."

Jess grinned. "They'll get awful hot and thirsty!"

Jim grinned back. "So they will. What a pity our hospitality isn't as lavish as theirs!"

"Yeah, y' can sure end up in some strange company around here!" Jess looked up from the bandaging and his expression reminded Chantal about the explanation he was no doubt going to extract from her sooner or later.

"No one invited the dead man!" Emory Turner's voice cut into their conversation. "And I knew I should never have trusted you, Harper!"

Jess grinned again. "You should never trust anyone y' have to pay that much to hire."

"And you never even earnt it!" Emory fumed.

"That depends on your viewpoint," he was told. "I wouldn't take your money, even if the other side hadn't asked me first. So your little payment will be findin' its way into whatever orphan funds Denver has."

Emory's snarl of "Little!" was interrupted by Jim reminding them all that they should be heading for Denver: "Get going, will you? The faster you get there, the less time I have to spend on guard."

"Reckon Trav can make it back there in under two hours," Jess told him. "He's been standin' around eatin' his head off and doin' nothing for the last couple of days."

"Unlike his owner?" Chantal pointed out teasingly.

"Hell, yeah! I'm starvin'!" It was not like Jess to miss one meal, never mind three. He turned swiftly to his mount. "Down, Trav!"

The horse obligingly knelt down and before memory could suggest evasive action, Chantal found herself swept up once more. Jess settled into the saddle with her resting his arms and Traveller lurched upright again. The sensation was extremely familiar and so was her reaction. But before she could utter a word more than her usual imprecations - "Maton! Gamberro!" - she was interrupted.

"Escúchame, Tal!" Jess snapped. "Y' can't ride with that arm. Anyway, it serves y' right if I have to take you to Denver myself. Y' should have kept your promise! Now just shut up and let's get goin'." He turned Traveller neatly and they disappeared down the road at a flat out gallop, raising a cloud of dust which soon hid horse and riders from view.

June exchanged glances with her husband as she gave a sigh half of relief, half laughter. "I told you!"

"You said he wouldn't let any harm come to her - that he'd protect her!"

They were swiftly corrected in their assumptions: "Au contraire! Il ne la traite pas comme du verre!" Armand laughed, then remembered to stick to English. "Quite the contrary. The only reason Jess can manage my daughter is because he doesn't treat her as if she was made of glass. He just assumes she's as tough as he is."

* * *

Translations:

Es suficiente, toro negro. That is enough, black bull.

Lo que quieras. Whatever you ask.

Mais oui, ma fille, il a raison. Yes, daughter, he is right.

Faire ce qu'il tu dit. Do as he tells you.


	9. Chapter 9

_The Company of Strangers_

Jantallian

 **9**

The buggy could not equal Traveller's lively pace, even with his double burden. Armand and June arrived in Denver at least two hours behind Jess and Chantal. They were both thankful to be able, at last, to make for the comfort and security of the Central. But the hope that their precursors had done the same was not fulfilled, for they found no trace of them in the lobby.

Armand approached the desk clerk, explained who he was and asked if Chantal was in her room. The clerk looked both apologetic and irritated. "Monsieur Picard, I regret to inform you that your daughter has been arrested!"

"What?" Both Armand and June were dumbfounded.

"Yes, monsieur. She was in the company of that … " He struggled for the right French word and settled for: "that scélérat – the gunman, the one who killed poor Mrs Dark's husband!" The words "in front of _my_ hotel!" hovered unspoken in the air. "And now -" a look of horror and professional apology transformed his face, "now, Mrs Dark, a further crime had been committed. Your poor husband's body has disappeared!" And the words 'from _my_ hotel' were too much for him to utter.

"Oh, no!" June's hands flew to her mouth. She might have been stifling hysterics; on the other hand, it might just have been a hysterical desire to laugh. "I don't believe it! Come on, Armand!" She steered the baffled Frenchman out of the door and down the street, leaving the equally baffled clerk staring after them.

"I do apologise!" June was saying as she hurried Armand along. "I should have explained the whole story to you on the way into town and not let you get such a shock."

"Au contraire," Armand insisted politely. "I am used to shocks from Chantal. However, I have discovered that Jess is perfectly capable of dealing with anything she manages to drag him into."

In this instance, she appeared to have dragged him into prison – or maybe it was the other way round? When Armand and June entered the Marshall's office, they found the errant couple side by side, sharing a cell. Something of a clean-up had obviously taken place. Chantal was wearing an extremely pretty dress and a sling; her newly washed hair floated around her like a silver and gold cloud. Jess was now minus the blood-stains, bandages and accumulated grime from his various fights. In addition, he had found - or possibly been coerced into buying - a clean, undamaged shirt. How long it would stay that way was anyone's guess.

It would have been nice to have found them side by side in the perfect harmony which their improved appearance suggested. They were however, naturally, in the middle of a heated discussion.

"And how the hell was I supposed to know y' could handle a rifle already?"

"My father is a keen marksman. And I have four brothers. Naturally I made sure I was taught."

"So, next time, you tell me what y'can an' can't do! Not knowin' can waste a whole lotta energy, not to say ammunition!"

"But I have never shot anything alive," Chantal informed him. "So more lessons were necessary and …" she paused and looked up at him under lowered golden lashes, "muy agradable … et mucho más divertido."

It was fortunate that they were in a relatively public place, otherwise Chantal might have found herself on the receiving end of more than a ferocious scowl for this piece of teasing. Armand was struggling to conceal his amusement at the fulfilment of his expectations once again. Soon, however, he had to assume a more serious demeanour as he and June set about convincing the hostile, bewildered and not very experienced deputy, who had been left to hold the fort, that he should release the argumentative couple.

"I can let the girl – sorry, sir – your daughter go. She's only there because she insisted they were in this crime together. But that gunman stays right where he is. He's too dangerous. He was told to quit town and if he hasn't, he'll take what's coming to him."

"But there isn't any crime," June insisted. "My husband is alive and well and he'll be here any minute."

"That's as maybe, Mrs Dark. But we all saw this man shoot him."

"It was a fair fight," Jess growled. "You all saw that too!"

"Shut up, Harper! Nobody wants you or your opinion around here."

Jess gave a snort of disgust. "You ain't gonna make much of a deputy if y'can't even tell a fair fight when y' see one!"

"Shut up, Jess! You're just making it worse," June implored. She turned to the recalcitrant deputy once more. "Marshall Peterson knows all about this. Mr Picard is the businessman Jim was trying to trace. He was kidnapped by Emory Turner and my husband and Jess Harper rescued him."

"Is that so?" the deputy scratched his head thoughtfully. He was not particularly quick on the uptake.

"Indeed," Armand contributed. "I can vouch that Marshall Dark is certainly alive and that the man you've locked up in a cell is innocent of any crime."

"Is that so, sir?"

"Of course it is," Chantal chimed in from the cell. "You don't think I'd be sitting in here with him if there was any danger, do you, deputy!"

Fortunately the deputy did not hear Jess chuckle, "O yes, y'would!" He was finally persuaded to unlock the cell, with the proviso that they must all stay in town until the posse returned and the matter was finally cleared up. As it was, he would not let them leave until they had all written out and signed detailed statements about the events at Turner's mansion.

It seemed impossibly long until Chantal was finally able to hug the father whom she had come so far and endured so much to rescue. She had never been an obedient or docile daughter, but Armand loved her all the more for her fierce independence and determination. So often their relationship had been a battleground, but right now they found themselves swept into a deep and heartfelt embrace.

When Armand had thoroughly thanked his daughter, he kept an arm round her as he smiled across the table at the man who had engineered his rescue. From the first moment he had set eyes on Jess Harper in the Sherman Relay Station yard and, more still, observed his attitude to Chantal, he had felt that here was a young man after his own heart and mind. If you let Chantal walk all over you, she'd do just that!

Jess dropped his pen with a sigh of relief. Writing was far from his favourite activity and it was somewhat doubtful whether the deputy would ever be able to read the statement he had extracted from his uncooperative prisoner. Jess stretched and stood up and smiled back at Armand. "Thank you for vouching for me, my friend."

"Main non! Je tu remercie, mon ami! Je dois ma liberté et ma fille."

"Liberté, peut-être …" Jess was struggling a bit in French and switched to Spanish, which all three of them spoke fluently. "Sin embargo, tus hija tiene sus propias ideas acerca de la libertad!"

Chantal spread her arms, embracing the cell, and looked Jess in the eye with the most intense expression she could muster: "Y la libertad no significa sobria y respectable!"

"You said it." Jess returned the look with utter seriousness. For a heart-beat it seemed that the world stood still, then he reminded them with a grin: "And freedom includes bein' able to eat when y' need. I'm still starvin', even if the rest of you ain't!"

# # # # #

It was early evening when Jim Dark finally made it back to the Marshall's Office in Denver, leaving the majority posse to escort Emory Turner and his gang into custody. He, Stan Peterson and the other deputy Marshalls had made good speed on the return journey. Jim was relieved to find that, in the meanwhile, both Jess and Armand had made statements, backed up by Chantal's testimony about finding her father imprisoned and June's explanation of the deception in which she had participated. Stan and his team were well satisfied and there was a sense of celebration at the successful end to a long and complicated investigation. This was, however, somewhat muted when Jim was handed a telegram for Jess which had just arrived at the Marshall's office.

For this reason, as well as because he devoutly hoped his wife was safe and resting, Jim made his way swiftly, if wearily, to the Central. He met the others outside as they were returning from a substantial and prolonged meal at an eating place not frequented before by any of the participants.

June was looking slightly dazed, as well she might. Dining with Jess when he was not being remote and unapproachable was something of an experience. He was still quiet, almost as reserved, letting Armand and Chantal carry the conversation, but he certainly was much more relaxed than he had been when this all began. Not being under the strain of avoiding killing Jim might have a lot to do with it, but the French influence contributed plenty too. Whatever the reason, Jess's appetite had returned with a vengeance and it was quite amazing how much food he could dispose of, given the opportunity. Perhaps it was fortuitous that the French were such good cooks?

The reunion of the Darks left no doubt about where June's real affections lay. Armand found himself blinking back an unexpected tear as he remembered Chantal's mother and all they had shared. His daughter was smiling, a thoughtful smile which recognised a genuine, loving partnership when she saw it. Jess remained inscrutable. As June had perceived, he understood very well that commitment meant passion, pain and taking risks for each other. He was just not prepared to offer her the same selfless admiration and devotion of which Slim was capable - but there were reasons for that.

Things might have become quite sentimental, had Jim not handed Jess the telegram. He tore it open and read it quickly. Then he sighed. "Just when I thought I was gonna get a couple of nights on the town!"

"Better not, if they end up like last time," Chantal reminded him.

"You tryin' t' keep me sober?"

"Heaven forbid!"

"What's urgent enough for a telegram?" Jim asked anxiously.

"Rustlin'," Jess replied succinctly. "Slim's hard pressed but he's got a respect for the law won't let him interfere with your operations. This is from Mort Cory - reckons I should be gettin' home before Slim tries to sort it out himself, busted ankle an'all."

"You'll never make it in time if you ride back," Jim pointed out.

"Yeah, guess I'll have to see if I can get Trav on to a train, at least as far as Cheyenne. He don't take kindly to bein' shut up anywhere he can't get out of."

Chantal stifled a giggle. _As with the man, so with the horse!_

Her mirth was quickly suppressed as Jess turned and presented Jim to her: "And by the way, Mademoiselle Picard - ici est Jim Dark, qui est bien vivant!" He did not actually say ' _now will you believe me!'_ but his tone certainly implied it.

Chantal took Jim's hand and fluttered her eyelashes appealingly: "I don't know how to thank you enough for rescuing my father."

"Y'can shake his hand!" Jess suggested before she got any other ideas. He shook Jim's hand vigorously himself, and then Armand's. The Frenchman, however, has having none of this and pulled the young Texan into a fervent and entirely Gallic embrace: "Jusqu'à la prochaine fois, mon ami!"

"But I hope you ain't gonna get kidnapped next time, Armand!" Jess told him severely. "Seems to be somethin' of a habit in your family."

"Mais nous avons donc été sauvé et protégé par toi, Jess," Armand replied with a smile. "That is never to be underestimated!"

"Yeah, well, if there is a next time …" Jess's attention switched entirely, and with considerable force, to Chantal, "just let me know you're needin' help, will y'?"

"Si. Agito mis brazos, grito!" She did not bother to demonstrate. "Siempre hago!"

Jess shook his head. "No, y' don't! But there ain't time to argue now. I've gotta to get Trav and catch a train, so come on!" He seized her by the elbow and they both disappeared abruptly in the direction of the hotel stables.

Assuming that Jess did actually intend to say goodbye before he left, everyone else drifted out through the doors and waited on the side-walk. Presently their patience was rewarded and Jess, Chantal and the faithful mount appeared from an alleyway into the main street. Their friends were too far away to catch the tail end of a conversation between the pair which went some way to explaining the ensuing action. "I told y' how things stand and I ain't changed my mind!" Jess was growling at Chantal. "But I've got a due to collect for bein' forced to wear a white shirt just to go out to supper!" The expression on his face nearly reduced Chantal to giggles again.

Jess led Traveller up to the hotel hitching rail and told him to stand. Chantal demurely mounted the steps and re-joined her father.

Sensing that the moment of parting had really arrived, June moved away from her husband's side and laid a hand on Jess's arm as she smiled up at him. "I was so afraid that Turner would decide Jim was too much of a danger and try to eliminate him. I don't know how to thank you enough for making it look that way and for not actually killing him!"

A distinct gleam came into Jess's eyes and he grinned wickedly. "Yes, y'do. Same as last time!" He raised an eyebrow enquiringly towards Jim. "Providin', of course, I ain't gonna get called out again?"

Jim grinned back and shook his head.

June tried to glare severely at the pair of them, but found herself being firmly taken by the arms and kissed thoroughly and at length. She wondered breathlessly whether Chantal was going to call her out on the grounds that 'es suficiente', but when she was able to look again, the French girl appeared to be stifling another fit of merriment.

This did not disconcert Jess in the slightest. Presumably he figured that, if she could laugh, she was now seeing things from a rather different perspective. He just released June and handed her politely back to Jim. Then he moved swiftly up the steps and neatly detached Chantal from her father's side in much the same way he would have cut out a calf from a herd.

Armand sighed. He had a romantic heart and also a strong desire for a quiet life. No such thing seemed to occur to Jess and Chantal. The pair of them stood in the middle of the side-walk, locked eyes, and engaged in a rapid-fire exchange in Spanish, which sounded as if co-operation, or any other kind of harmony, had never occurred to them. Neither of them took the slightest notice of their audience or the steady stream of mystified passers-by.

Presently Jess's voice fell to a rumbling growl which brooked no opposition despite Chantal's spirited attempts at just that. Armand, the only one who understood what was going on, had been politely trying not to listen. Nonetheless the words 'boots' and 'hat' and 'no fancy clothing' seemed to feature prominently. Then silence fell unexpectedly.

Into it, Jess said with inexorable determination: "El equipo adecuado. La próxima vez. ¿Tú entiendes?"

Chantal nodded vigorously and suggested: "And maybe we could avoid cliffs too?"

"Yeah," Jess replied softly and fervently. "Vamos a contar estrellas en vez."

Chantal smiled in agreement. But as he ran down the steps to mount Traveller once more, she called: "Jess!"

"Yeah?"

"When you catch up with those rustlers, just remember your disapproving grandchildren, will you, Temerario?"

Jess laughed. "You wouldn't want me to get bored now, would y', PT?"

He hopped on to Traveller, nudged him into a swivel turn, and waved briefly to them over his shoulder as man and horse headed in the direction of the railway station, moving at a steady, mile-eating lope, exactly the way they had arrived in Denver.

Armand looked sideways at his daughter, a quizzical expression on his face. By some strange quirk of time and fate, he seemed to be quoting as he enquired: "Some unfinished business?"

Chantal laughed too. "Nothing," she replied, "that won't improve with keeping."

#

* * *

#

Translations:

Muy agradable … et mucho más divertido. Very pleasant … and much more entertaining.

Je tu remercie, mon ami! Je dois ma liberté et ma fille. Thank you, my friend. I have my freedom and my daughter.

Sin embargo, tus hija tiene sus propias ideas acerca de la libertad. However, your daughter has her own ideas about freedom.

Y la libertad no significa sobria y respectable. And freedom does not mean being sober and respectable.

Jusqu'à la prochaine fois, mon ami! Until next time, my friend.

Mais nous avons donc été sauvé et protégé par toi But so we have been rescued and protected by you

Agito mis brazos, grito. Wave my arms, shout.

El equipo adecuado. La próxima vez. ¿Tú entiendes? The right equipment. Next time. Understand?

Vamos a contar estrellas en vez. Let's count stars instead.

* * *

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Acknowledgement: _For all chapters: The great creative writing of the 'Laramie' series is respectfully acknowledged. My stories are purely for pleasure and are inspired by the talents of the original authors, producers and actors._

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Reading order for the stories relating to Jess's encounters with Chantal: _A List and Three Black Eyes, The Company of Strangers, Bearing Gifts, The Morning After._

Apologies to the topography of Denver and its surroundings!


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